Thicker than Water
by PaperbackWriter318
Summary: When May Harrison's son was abducted, she expected to get help. What she didn't expect was for Sherlock Holmes to come crashing into her life. As long buried memories and emotions surface, she quickly figures out that Sherlock is many things, and fiercely loyal to the ones he loves is definitely one of them. Sherlock/OC Summary and/or title subject to change.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Soo, this is my first ever Sherlock fic. I'm not extremely new to Sherlock, but I am a bit inexperienced when writing his particular character. Please be nice, but feedback would be lovely. :)**

**Muchas gracias to _Leah Holmes_ for being the most awesome beta ever. :)**

May Harrison sat on a bench with her three month old son, Charlie, in her arms. She'd just gone to the grocery store and had stopped to pull her thoughts together.

May was a single mother, and had been ever since her son was born. Her fiancé had left her as soon as Charlie took his first breath. Why, she didn't know, and she didn't honestly want to. She had a job as a counter attendant in a pharmacy near her flat, but it paid barely enough for both she and her child to get along. So each week May would go without a little something to ensure that Charlie would have what he needed. Her veteran pension paid the rent and her meager salary paid for everything else, which was not much.

"But we get along alright, don't we Charlie?" The end of May's thoughts became a verbal question posed to the baby boy in her arms. She smiled as the child waggled his arms out of his blanket and cooed. Settling him gently in his stroller, May reached over to her left to pick up her tiny bag of groceries for the week. In the few seconds that her back was turned, a person snatched Charlie out of his stroller and started running. Their shoulder collided heavily with May and dazed her for a moment.

As she scrambled to her feet, her panic stricken brain put exactly two facts together. One, the dark clad figure that she was now stumbling after was a man. And two, that man had taken the one precious thing in her life from her: her son. "Stop, that's my son!" the scream was torn from her lips as she ran through the crowded, dark London streets. Frightened tears raced each other down her face, creating a blurry, ethereal glow in her vision.

"You heartless b-b-bastard, give m-me back my son!" Screaming was now too much effort for her gasping lungs, which created sputtering, choking sobs that made breathing difficult. Even though she saw the man get into a car and start to drive away, May kept chasing after her son for quite a ways. People turned to stare at the spectacle, but no one tried to help the distraught woman.

A few blocks later, finally drained of her strength, May sank to the ground and put her hands over her face. An undefined length of time passed, and then a pair of feet approached her crumpled state. "Hey, are you okay?" A male voice floated down to her ears. "Ma'am, what's wrong?"

May lifted her head slightly to see a concerned looking man crouched next to her. She could feel the tracks of mascara tracing her cheeks and the shiny, stickiness of dried tears over the top of that. God, I'm a mess, she had the presence of mind to think.

"Look," the man said, touching her shoulder gently. "I can help you, but you've got to tell me what's wrong."

She tried to compose herself adequately. "A m-man, h-he took m-my son and g-got into a c-car and I d-don't know where they w-w-went!" May dissolved once more into tears, crying into the man's jacket.

"Okay, come on," the man took May by the arms and helped her to her feet carefully.

"M-my things-" May attempted to protest, pointing back the way she had come.

"I'll go back for them later," the man assured her, wrapping an arm around her waist to support her. They walked in silence for a time, save for the quiet hiccups that remained of May's sobs.

Soon, they arrived in front of a door that led to a flat. May turned to the man and looked him in the eye. "What's your name?" she asked curiously. He offered her a tiny smile.

"John," he replied. "Dr. John Watson." And with that, he opened the door to the flat and ushered her in. The address was one that May would grow to know well; 221B. Baker Street.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

Let it be known; John Watson was not the type of man to go picking girls up off the street. Unless of course said girl was extremely distraught and had just had her child abducted. Then he made an exception. Right after the two entered the building, they promptly ran into Mrs. Hudson, the landlady.

"Mercy," she whispered. "What's happened to this poor girl, John?"

John shook his head. "I don't quite know, actually. She hasn't been able to string much of a coherent thought together yet. Could I trouble you for a pot of tea and a blanket?" Normally, this request would illicit a, "Not your housekeeper!" response, but this was not a normal circumstance.

"Of course," the older woman nodded. "Let me know if you need anything else, John." He nodded at her and led the woman up the stairs. His chair was in closer proximity to the fire than that of his flat mate, so he sat her down in it and stoked the fire. Soon, Mrs. Hudson came bustling up with a blanket draped over her arm and a tray in her hands with a white teapot, delicate teacup in the same style as the pot, a silver spoon, and a bowl of sugar cubes.

She tucked the blanket over the woman and set the tray on a side table next to the armchair. Mrs. Hudson patted the woman's shoulder and left the room.

John hesitantly sat down in Sherlock's chair, hoping very much that he wouldn't arrive home while John was still sitting in it. "So, I just need some information then," he addressed the woman after she had fixed herself a cup of tea. "What's your name?" he asked, pulling a pad of paper and a pen out of his pocket upon which to take notes. Unlike a certain high functioning, sociopathic consulting detective he could mention, John couldn't remember every bit of information imparted to him.

"May," she responded emotionlessly. "May Harrison." May took a sip of her tea, wrapping her hands around the cup for warmth.

"Alright, May," John shifted in his chair. "Now-" May interrupted him.

Her voice was shaky, but strong enough to be audible. "I'm 27, my son's name is Charlie, he's three months old, I work at the pharmacy a few blocks from here, my flat is a door down to the left, and I was at the grocery store a couple blocks from here." She looked up at John. "Will that be all you need from me?"

John's eyebrows shot into his hairline as he finished scribbling down what May had said. "Um, mostly," he said. "But I just have one question. Is there anyone who would want to, um, hurt you in any way?"

May gave him a look that John could not decipher. "In the real world, there are no enemies, John," she murmured a phrase that John had spoken himself not very long ago.

"Okay then," he chose to breeze over the comment. "Can you tell me exactly what happened earlier tonight?" May nodded.

"I finished my shift at the pharmacy, went home, paid the babysitter, and put Charlie in his stroller because I needed to go to the grocery store. I went to the grocery store, bought what I needed, and stopped on a bench to collect my thoughts. I gave Charlie his bottle because he was fussing and then put him back into his stroller. When I turned to pick up my bag and when my back was turned, a person-a man by his build-took my son." Her voice wavered and cracked. "And past that, you know as well as I do, if not better, what happened."

"Right," said John, sliding his phone out of his pocket. Opening it, he typed in a message.

Sherlock: Almost done with the murder case? Got a child abduction case you might be interested in. -John

An almost instantaneous reply arrived at his phone: Been done. It was too easy; the wife obviously did it. Is it worth my time? -SH

John replied quickly: Obvious to you, maybe. Possibly, I've gotten basic info, but I think she's not telling me everything. -John

This response took longer than the previous one had, almost like Sherlock was thinking about it: I'll be there soon. I assume she's in your chair, so would you be so kind as to get out of mine? -SH

John chuckled to himself and slid his phone back into his pocket. " A friend of mine who is also part owner of this flat is coming soon. He's a very good detective." May nodded.

A few minutes later, John's keen ears picked up on Sherlock coming through the door. He got up from the chair and dashed down the stairs in time to catch Sherlock taking his coat off. "Notebook," he said without turning to face John. The latter sighed and forked over the small notebook into Sherlock's waiting hand.

The tall man flipped through John's notes quickly, his eyes whizzing across the page. Seconds later, his head lifted.

"Is this all?" asked Sherlock abruptly. "It seems fairly transparent; the police might be able to manage this one all on their own."

John shifted from foot to foot in irritation. "If I thought it was all, I would have called the police. Like I said in the text, I think she's hiding something."

Sherlock made a great show of straightening his scarf on the rack. "And you thought I could figure out what it is?" he asked. John gave a tiny nod.

Sherlock began his journey up the stairs. "Very well, then. Lead me to this May Harrison."

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

May stood up as John reentered the room, accompanied by another man. She supposed that this was his detective friend. Something about him stirred a long-buried memory in her, but she couldn't quite put her finger on it.

Her mobile phone dinged in her pocket. "Do you mind if I take this?" she asked sheepishly. John made a "go ahead" gesture.

"Hello?" she answered. A bunch of heavy breathing filtered through the airwaves.

"I want the information," the voice growled.

"Sorry?" she asked, feeling a thrill of fear in the pit of her stomach. It had been a year, she had hoped it would have been forgotten.

"You know what I'm talking about," the voice was angry now.

"I'm sorry, but I really don't," she lied. "Could you elaborate?"

A long, uncomfortable, static filled silence passed, and then the voice spoke again. It was full of ice and contempt. "Don't play cute with me," came the snarl. "You know exactly what I'm talking about. You have three days or your son disappears. Permanently." May was left with a pounding heart and an earful of dial tone.

She pocketed her phone, and when she looked up she was faced with John's friend. He was tall, at least 6 feet. His face was angular with the sharp cheekbones of a person who forgot to eat sometimes, he had stunningly blue eyes that seemed to see through a person as easily as one might see through a pane of glass, and topping his head was a mass of wavy black hair.

Without even offering the barest pleasantries, he began to speak. "All of the information that John has given me is correct, I just have a few things to add. You're not natively from London, though you've lived close to it all your life, perhaps to the south. You're an army veteran, served in Afghanistan for a time. But you weren't with an infantry, naval, or aerial unit. Nor were you with a normal office position. No, you were with intelligence, army intelligence, which is a spectacularly large oxymoron. And your watch says 'Made in Afghanistan', which shows that you were friendly with the other side." He paced around May, fingertips pressed in a steeple shape underneath his chin.

"Before we go off into 'that's incredible!' land, I have a few more observations to make," he continued, sitting down in what he seemed to have claimed as 'his chair.' "You're a single mother, you make barely enough money to get by, and you don't know who the father of your child is. And that bothers you, doesn't it?" May was shocked, though she did not show it. Evidently, the man was finished, because he turned away from her. "Well, this is fun, isn't it?"

May held the man's intense gaze evenly. "You're Sherlock Holmes, aren't you?" she asked. Sherlock barely inclined his head in acknowledgement.

May straightened up, brushed a lock of honey blonde hair out of her bright green eyes, and looked Sherlock right in the eye. "Almost, Mr. Holmes, almost. You're almost right, but not quite. So prove that what you've said about me is true. Then perhaps you'll realize where you went wrong." Now May knew exactly where she knew the tall man from and it took her breath away.

John's eyebrows went up again. Telling Sherlock Holmes he was wrong was more often than not a dangerous idea.

Sherlock's eyes shone with a sort of excited fire. This was a challenge and he welcomed it. "Prove it, you say? If you insist." He got out of the chair and began to pace again. "You very nearly have a London accent, but something about it is different, like you lived south of here for an extended stretch of time. Early childhood, perhaps? I see now where my small error was. That watch was not a thank you gift from the other side, for one thing, it's second hand and very battered. If it were a gift, it would be new. Though it was new to you, as you've only had it for about a month by the way you keep fidgeting with it." May let her hand fall away from the band of her watch self-consciously.

"So I maintain that you were with army intelligence. The speed at which you put your phone in your pocket suggests you worked with electronics frequently, which is not unusual. There is a crease between your eyebrows, which says that you were under high stress. A job, perhaps? But a pharmacy is pretty low stress job. So it shows that you were under constant pressure of being caught- oh." Sherlock took a deep breath and his head tipped back. "Oh. You were a mercenary spy, selling your skills to the highest bidder. But you've been out of action for at least a year. Did you get emotionally attached to a case and want out? The age of your son doesn't quite match up, so pregnancy was just a dodge that shortly became reality." Sherlock came to a standstill in front of May.

"Your clothes are worn and old looking, but well cared for. You can't afford new ones, and you also cannot afford to allow them to deteriorate. Your cheekbones are sharply visible, and the clothes hang off your body as though you've lost weight due to lack of food. And every time I give mention of a father for your son, your eyes widen and the fingers of your left hand twitch." He sat back down and folded his hands under his chin.

"What you say is true, Mr. Holmes," May said slowly. "But my life story isn't my prime concern at the moment. What I want to know is if you can help me find my son. Can you do that?" she issued yet another challenge to the consulting detective. She offered her hand in a handshake. Bright tears stood in May Harrison's eyes.

Sherlock got to his feet once more. "It would be a pleasure to do so," he murmured, taking the proffered hand and shaking it. His face, which had remained stoic until that point, lit up in a delighted smile in much the same manner as a child who has received a much wanted Christmas present.

**A/N: Any good? Review, please! :)**


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Well, it's been awhile. Sorry. :P High school is crazy.**

**Thanks to _Leah Holmes_ for being a super awesome beta! :)**

After the handshake, the flat was quickly enveloped in a thick, resounding silence, the type that makes one's ears ring. John softly cleared his throat after a few seconds. "Um, I'll walk you home, Ms. Harrison," he offered.

May paused before responding. "Well, if it isn't too much trouble," she said. "Because I'm perfectly capable of walking home alone." She pulled her coat on and began to do up the buttons.

"No, no," he said, shaking his head. "It's too late to go alone. It's no trouble, really." May hesitated, taking in the man's earnest expression. She supposed it would be impossible to get him to change his mind.

"... Okay," May conceded. "Thank you." She nodded at Sherlock, who was at that moment plucking at the strings of his violin, looking miles away from the London flat. There was, of course, no answer.

When they reached the street," May pointed the way back to her flat. Next to nothing was said, aside from May's directions.

"Well, thanks, Dr. Watson," said May, a tiny, strained smile pasted to her face.

"Not a problem," he replied, shaking her hand. "Sorry about Sherlock's, um, abruptness, he's—"

"Always like that," May finished with him. "Goodnight, Dr. Watson," she whispered, closing the door to her flat on an extremely confused John Watson.

As soon as she heard his footsteps recede, she sank to a crouch against the wall, tears slipping down her cheeks again. "Why would you do this?" she questioned the ceiling. "Take it out on me, not my son." May cupped her hands under her chin. "It's me you're mad at, not him!" her voice rose to a scream, and then dwindled into yet more shoulder shaking sobs. She slowly got to her feet and made her way with shuffling, broken steps to her bedroom.

The crib on the left side of the room drew her eyes to it, no matter how much she tried to resist. It was as though her eyes and the crib were opposite poles on a pair of magnets. To attempt to combat this, May kicked her shoes off and fell into bed without bothering to get undressed. If she thought she'd get any decent amount of sleep, it was only a cruel trick her mind played on her.

In the very little sleep she got, her brain was plagued with strange dream after strange dream.

_Dream_

"_What do you mean, you want out?" May cringed at the venom in the man's voice._

"_You-you heard me," May's voice quivered. She'd stared down the most coldhearted assassins ever to walk the face of the earth without so much as a blink. But him, he was different. His voice wound in tight, constricting circles around one's brain after slinking in through one's ears with the lightest caress, like silk against skin. It could make you feel emboldened and powerful, or small and terrified in the same instant, depending on his mood._

"_May I ask why?" his voice was deadly calm, masking a rage that could bring the toughest man to his knees in an instant._

_May's thoughts raced like a wild horse. She'd been planning this escape for days, but now, in his presence, the words were tumbling around, out of reach. "I'm pregnant," she said evenly, meeting the charismatic, insane eyes._

"_Is it _his_?" he asked sharply, pacing stiffly, like someone had put far too much starch in his clothing._

_May was glad that it was all he had said. This was a scenario she could work with. "Absolutely not!" she feigned disgust at the very idea. "It's Jack's—my fiance," she referred to the other spy currently working for the man. The lie seemed to appease him, for his shoulders released a tiny fraction of their tension._

"_Have you worked everything out with your 'other establishment'?" he sneered, pacing again._

"_Of course," she said, as though stating the obvious. "That was the first thing I did." He nodded in approval._

"_We shall miss you," he said, a sickly sweet smile etched onto his face. "It's not often I find a spy as good as you." And that was as close to a compliment as she had ever heard from him._

"_T-thank you," she murmured, hating the frightened note in her voice and trying not to drown in the maniac eyes. He stepped uncomfortably close and May used every ounce of her willpower not to back away._

"_It's such a shame you didn't get to finish your mission," he said, an obviously fake look of melancholy painted on that blank, reusable canvas of a face. "I expect I'll be getting the final report soon?" his voice was tinged with a note of anticipation that also intoned that he would get it in one way or another._

_Now it was May's turn to screw on a false smile. "As soon as it's done, you'll get it," she insincerely promised. Hasty goodbyes were bade and May hurried out of the abandoned warehouse, her hand clutching her bag so tightly her knuckles were turning white. _He won't get it_, she promised herself. _He won't.

_When she got home, Jack immediately pulled her into a kiss. "Hey baby," he said, stroking her hair. "The meeting go well?" Another faux smile turned the corners of her mouth up._

"_Uh-huh, but I don't really want to talk about it," she said, kissing her fiance's cheek._

_Two weeks later..._

_The white, plastic pregnancy test slipped between May's numb fingers and landed with an echoing clatter on the tile floor. Her eyes seemed tattooed with the little smiley face. Pregnant? Her brain raced through a mental calendar of the last month. It had to be Jack's, it was the only explanation. _Unless... no,_ she told herself. It couldn't be his. It just couldn't._

"_Jack?" she called down the hallway, making a concerted effort to keep her voice from quavering._

_Nine months later..._

_Pain. Deep, flashing, blinding pain._

_May's hair was plastered to her forehead with sweat, her breath came in sputtering gasps. "C'mon, honey, you can do it!" Jack's hand clutched at hers reassuringly._

_Contract. Gasp. Pain._

"_I don't think I can!" she cried out, nearly breaking Jack's hand in the process. Out of the corner of her blurred vision, she saw him wince._

"_Of course you can!" he said. "But try not to kill my hand, yeah? I need that one." May attempted to chuckle, but it came out as a shuddering gasp._

_Pain. Resonating, deep-set pain._

_Then... relief._

_The frail cries of a newborn who has just taken it's first breaths pierced the air like a needle through a piece of embroidery. May sighed, slumping back against her fiance, who caressed her cheek and hugged her softly._

_A few minutes later, a nurse came back with a small bundle in her arms. "Here's your son, Ms. Harrison," she gently transferred the baby into May's waiting arms. "He's a beautiful, healthy, baby boy." She smiled at the sleeping child in her arms._

"_Hello there," she whispered to him. "What's your name, then?" He sleepily opened his eyes and May noted with mild surprise that his eyes were blue. She vaguely wondered how parents with green eyes and brown eyes and no blue eyes previously on either side of the family could have a child with bright blue eyes._

_Jack crouched down. "Hello, son. You're a handsome boy, aren't you?" A proud smile stretched his features and his hand gently stroked the baby's head. May was again surprised to note that the boy had black hair. Jack had flaming red hair, as did most of his family, and May had golden blonde hair like the rest of her family._

"_D'you like the name Charles, little fellow?" Jack inquired, gently taking the bundle into his arms and swaying back and forth slowly. "Charles Jackson Harrison?" They had liked that name for a boy and had agreed that the child should take May's last name until they got married._

"_My Charlie," May murmured once their son was situated in her arms again. A slight frown creased Jack's forehead, but it was gone so fast that May thought she might have imagined it._

"_I'm just going to go walk around for a bit," Jack said, kissing May's cheek and going out the door. She settled into the scratchy, white hospital sheets the best she could and gazed at her son, feeling a huge happiness bloom inside her._

_As she looked at him, May noticed yet one more thing. Charlie had some of her features,but none of Jack's. He looked a little like May, but not very much. He looked even less like Jack and May wondered where the features came from._

_When Jack came back into the room, he was not happy. Every last thing about him bespoke anger; the tightness of his gait, the taut, thin line of a mouth, the furrowed brow, and the angle at which he put his body. "Is something w—" May began, but Jack cut her off in a low, angry voice._

"_Yes, something bloody well is wrong!"he hissed. "This boy is not mine!" May's eyes went wide._

"_Of course he is! How could he not be, Jack?" May whispered, clutching the infant tighter against her chest._

"_I had the lab do a rudimentary blood test; our types don't match up," Jack paced, and then stopped. "Jesus," he breathed. "He's _his_, isn't he?" he asked, fury snapping like fire in his eyes._

"_No, he's not!' May exclaimed. "Those tests don't show everything, Jack," she protested._

"_He doesn't even look like me!" he growled. "I should've guessed—you fell in love with that bastard, didn't you?"_

_Tears sparkled like sad diamonds in May's eyes. "No, I didn't! Jack, that was acting to get a job done, nothing more. You have to believe me, please."_

_Jack eyed her coldly. "I'll not stand by and raise a child that doesn't belong to me." He stomped out the door and nearly ran down the nurse carrying in the birth certificate forms._

_She took one look at the tearful May and sighed sympathetically. "We get that sort in here all the time, dearie. Shall we move on?" When it came time to name the father, May earned herself a strange look when she requested it remain blank, but the order was obeyed._

_May didn't want to remember the father of her child. He had been part of a job, nothing more. He had been the man she wasn't supposed to fall in love with._

_And until now, she hadn't remembered him. She'd simply pushed him to a corner of her mind and kept him buried there. But now she did remember and there was no escaping that fact._

_End dream_

May awoke with a start, hand clutching at her racing heart. Her hair was plastered to her face with sweat. Memories that she thought she'd suppressed were tumbling around in a sickening free fall inside her head, making normal thought impossible. She glanced at the clock and bit back a curse when she saw that it was three am. There was no way she was getting back to sleep tonight.

OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

Sherlock sat alone in 221B. Baker Street, waiting for John to return. Then he remembered that it was probably "one of those law things" to call the police to report a crime. Even of they're just going to call you to solve it anyway.

He sighed and pulled his phone out of his pocket to dial Lestrade's number.

"What the bloody hell could you possibly be calling about at this hour?" the extremely irate note in Lestrade's voice was an indicator that he had just been woken up and was not pleased about it.

"Sorry to wake you," the apology slipped through his lips without thought or meaning. A huff from the other end implied quite heavily that the sleepy DI didn't believe him. "But there's been a child abduction about a block and a half from here."

"Sherlock, I'm at home and it's midnight. What on Earth am I supposed to do about it now? Look, call me in the morning, at a decent hour mind you, and I'll get the details then. _Goodnight_." Lestrade hung up and Sherlock tucked his phone away, mentally going over the case info in his mind until the sound of John returning distracted him.

As soon as John came into the sitting room, Sherlock stood up. "I'm going out," he informed the shorter man.

"What—Sherlock, it's the middle of the night!" John exclaimed.

"You mentioned groceries and a stroller in your report, and yet neither of them were with Ms. Harrison." At this point, John clapped a hand to his forehead.

"I knew I was forgetting something," he muttered.

"I'm going to find them," Sherlock pulled his coat on and turned the collar up in anticipation of the biting London wind.

"Do it tomorrow-" John began.

"It'll be gone by then," he cut across him. "Don't wait up." Sherlock stepped out of 221B. and started to track down the items. May had given John more than ample information and it was a matter of minutes before he came across a lonely stroller. The bag of groceries was, predictably, gone, but Sherlock could get information from this.

Noting that the couple opposite him were each having affairs with their partners' best friends, he began to examine the object.

_Items hurriedly stuffed into the storage, scuff mark, fairly recent on the outside of the front left wheel, light grip marks on the handle, and a small tear in the fabric of the hood. Deduction, the only time May goes for walks with her son using this is when she's stressed or in a hurry, or both,_ Sherlock thought.

Upon better examining the interior of the stroller, Sherlock saw a note tucked into a blanket. The angle at which it sat said that it had been planted by the kidnapper.

He delicately extracted the paper and unfolded it. What met his eyes was a language even he couldn't decipher, which was saying a considerable amount. It just looked like a load of thick, black scribbles.

_Left-handed, expensive parchment, inexpensive ink, water-based, fine-tipped brush, man's writing. Definitely from the kidnapper._

Sherlock sat on the bench and stared at the jumble of symbols. He ran through every single language, code, number system or combination thereof, but came up empty handed. Hours passed as he carefully sifted through the contents of his Mind Palace, but to no avail.

This was driving him bonkers.

And then it came to him. He knew exactly who could solve it. If it was sent to her, she obviously knew how to decode it.

Sherlock got up and began to walk through the quiet, sleepy streets toward the residence of May Harrison.

OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

May braced herself against the sink in the bathroom, trying to bring her erratic pulse back down to a slightly more tolerable level. Sleeping again was out of the question. She was afraid of what she might see if she closed her eyes again.

With a sigh, she pulled on a pair of sweat pants and a t-shirt and sat on the edge of her bed, staring out the window.

The sound of a lock being picked, the lock to her front door to be exact, brought her back to the present with a crash.

In an instant her old shotgun, which always resided on her night table, loaded, was in her hand, the safety clicked off, and it was leveled at the shadowy head of the intruder. She'd learned to do or die in most situations. This was probably one of them.

**A/N: *Loud, obnoxious, dramatic music plays* I really hope I'll have the next chapter up sooner. I'll try my best, I promise! **

**Review? :)**


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: I really need to stop saying this, but I didn't mean for it to be so long in between posts. It's musical week and everything is crazy and nothing makes much sense during that period of time. This has been written for AGES, but I haven't had time to just sit down and type it up. Apologies.**

**Warning: Un-beta'd because I didn't want to wait any longer to put this up. Pardon any mistakes.**

**Disclaimer (haven't done one of these for awhile): I do not own Sherlock or anything else you may recognize. Sherlock and all the associated characters belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Steven Moffat, and Mark Gatiss.**

_ May had learned to do or die in most situations. This was probably one of them._

"Show yourself!" May commanded, two handing the shotgun, finger resting tensely on the trigger. Her intruder obliged, which was somewhat odd, stepping forward into a patch of moonlight. She wasn't exactly surprised to see who it was, but that didn't mean she was glad, either.

"Most people knock, or wait 'till a decent hour to come barging into someone's flat," she informed Sherlock, who was at that moment taking his coat off and evidently making himself at home.

"Urgent, couldn't wait," he said, bounding up the stairs with far too much energy for the time of day that it was. "Your son's kidnapper left you a little note." He held up a piece of paper between two fingers. "It's not any cipher I've ever seen before," the words seemed to come forth with great reluctance. "I assume you can read it?"

May took the piece of paper and flicked on a lamp so she could see it better. Instantly, she recognized the seemingly jumbled script and her heart fell right through the floor. There was only one person she knew that knew this type of script. "Did you ever study ancient Egyptian writing?" she asked Sherlock as she ushered him inside.

"If I ever did, I've deleted it, he replied, seating himself on the small couch. May decided it was best not to ask about such things.

"This is demotic script, well, sort of," she said, pointing to the heavy, black writing. "It's a simplified version of hieroglyphics, but this is slightly updated. It's also upside down and backwards. Not horribly inventive, but there you go." May paused. "Since I assume you're going to be here for awhile, do you want some tea?" Sherlock nodded, fingers steepled beneath his chin.

May set the paper down and went in search of her tea-making supplies. When she returned with the tea, Sherlock appeared not to have moved even a finger's breadth.

"Weren't you going to make tea?" he inquired, and then noticed the tray in her hands.

May set the tray down, poured two cups of tea, and picked the message up again. "It's been awhile since I've used the script, I'm a bit rusty." She picked up a notebook and pencil and began to study the paper. Remembering that it was upside down and backwards, she pulled a cosmetic mirror out of her bag, flipped the paper over, and started to decipher the message. Sherlock leaned over her shoulder, observing every move she made with an intense stare.

With each symbol, the crease between May's eyebrows became more pronounced. When she finished deciphering, the note contained a pair of map coordinates and the following:

_**Three days to solve this puzzle:**_

_**It cannot be seen, cannot be felt.**_

_**Cannot be heard, cannot be smelt.**_

_**It lies behind stars and under hills.**_

_**And empty holes it fills.**_

_**It comes first and follows after.**_

_**Ends life, kills laughter.**_

_**Where does it hide? You should know, you helped design it.**_

There was a cold feeling in the pit of May's stomach. The riddle was easy, but it was meant to be so. For some reason, he _wanted _her to figure it out.

Sherlock looked pensive. "I never liked riddles," he muttered.

"This is an easy one," May said. "Especially if you've read The Hobbit."

"The what?"

May sighed. "Never mind. If you're interested, the answer is darkness."

"I think a bit of back history is in order if we're to figure out what the kidnapper means by this," Sherlock said, interlacing his fingers.

May hesitated for a fraction of a beat. "During my years of employment," she was unsure of this word being the correct choice for her circumstance. "The person I worked for was designing a place to, erm, interrogate prisoners he captured and also to be a central meeting point. I helped design it, but there really wasn't much to do. He simply picked an old, abandoned castle from the medieval period and added an imaginative array of updates. Interrogation rooms, secret rooms, booby traps, even a minefield that would rival the one rumored to be near Baskerville. It was horrible, really." A swooping sensation took ahold of her insides when she realized they'd taken her son_ there._ To the place where hardly anyone not working for the man came out alive. And those that did were hardly shadows of their former selves.

"Why would they give us the exact coordinates for such a place, though? Why?" Sherlock's voice was scarcely above a breath.

"I don't know how and I don't know why, but they _want _us to go there," said May, rubbing her chin as she always did when deep in thought.

"What was your employer's name?" Sherlock inquired, his blue eyes burning a steady, quiet hole through May's stream of consciousness.

"I don't know," she admitted truthfully. His searching, almost doubtful gaze prompted her to add, "I don't! I met him, talked to him, but not once did I ever hear his name." Some people knew it, but they were the elite of the elite in his inner circle and it was considered the ultimate taboo to say it out loud, sort of a "Harry Potter-esque, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named" thing.

OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

They sat on the couch for a long time, lost in their own worlds of thought. Some time later, Sherlock was unable to say exactly when, he felt a weight on his shoulder. Looking over, he saw that May had fallen asleep. Carefully, he moved out from under her and laid her on the sofa.

He stared at the translated message, wondering why on Earth it would be so easy. There was no mystery to this at all. Or perhaps, because of the simplicity there was _more _intrigue and mystery. Sherlock pulled his phone out of his pocket and sent out a mass text to his homeless network with the coordinates and a message:

_Find out all that you can about this location. Pictures, descriptions, whatever you come across. There is a reward if you do. -SH_

Within hours, pictures and other information flooded his inbox. The pictures weren't of good quality, but they were adequate for him to see thick vegetation and the crumbling ruins of a medieval castle, just as May had described it. Several links led him to news stories about a castle that was reportedly haunted and no one ever went in and came out as the same person. And sometimes they didn't come out at all.

He analyzed the pictures and news until light began to filter into the room. Glancing down at his watch some time later, Sherlock realized that the pharmacy would be open by now and that he should probably go beg May out of work for today, maybe the duration of the case.

Looking over to the couch where May slept, her golden hair spraying out around her head like a fan, Sherlock silently made his way over to the door and exited the flat.

Once in the pharmacy, he turned his coat collar down and searched for the nearest employee. "Excuse me," he tapped the shoulder of a young woman who was currently in the middle of a fight with her on-again-off-again boyfriend by the crease in her brow. She stifled a yelp and turned around.

"May I help you?" she asked warily, smoothing down her uniform slacks.

"Yes, I was wondering if I could speak to your manager?" Sherlock adopted an earnest expression and tone.

"Certainly," she said. "Is anything the matter?"

"No, no," Sherlock shook his head. The woman led him through the pharmacy to the back where a short, slightly portly woman was sitting at a computer.

"Mrs. Carrigan?" The employee tapped the manager on the shoulder. She looked up questioningly.

"Yes, Shelby?" Mrs. Carrigan asked, smiling at the girl.

"This man would like to speak to you," her voice was unsteady. Sherlock's very presence, even though he was trying his hardest to be unimposing, seemed to unsettle her.

"Thank you," the woman said. "Could you go check on the stocks of aspirin? We just got a new shipment today and I thought it looked smaller than it should." Shelby nodded and turned away. "Now," she turned to Sherlock, who had progressively grown more unimpressed by May's coworkers as time passed. "What can I do for you?"

"I'm actually here for May Harrison," he poured just the right amount of anxiety and uncertainty into his voice.

"Oh yes," Mrs. Carrigan nodded. "She's a nice girl, good worker."

Sherlock mentally smirked, imagining the motherly woman's reaction if he told her that May was a retired mercenary spy. "Well, you see, her son's been taken and she's horribly shaken and upset." He twisted his hands together for good measure. "I don't think she'll be able to work today. Didn't get a wink of sleep last night," he added, which was mostly true.

Tears filled the older woman's eyes. "Oh the poor dear," she said with feeling. "Of course she can have the day off and every day after that until they find her son. Just out of curiosity, who are you?" she asked.

"Just a good friend," he said.

"I hope they find him," Mrs. Carrigan said. "That little boy was May's whole world. Who could blame her, though? After her fiance left her like that," she clucked like a mother hen. Sherlock's mind raced.

"May told me he left her, but she was always too broken up to tell me why," he said, turning back to the woman.

"That Jack Graeber was no good for May," said Mrs. Carrigan firmly. "He was always so possessive. I can't believe he thought that child belonged to a man he thought May was having an affair with. The very idea!"

"Yes, well." Sherlock knew most of this information, but the potential affair could both be interesting and also explain a few things. "Thank you for your time."

He made a stop at the grocery store, taking care not to use John's card, as he'd taken John's wallet before he left since it had more cash in it. He'd taken a look in May's fridge and pantry to find them both to be woefully empty.

When Sherlock got back to May's flat he could see her moving about through the window so he knocked instead of picking the lock again.

Seconds later, May appeared at the door, tugging a coat around her shoulders, her eyes wide. She must have thought she was late. "You could've just woken me up before you went to go do your errands," May said, attempting to wriggle past him. He grasped her shoulders and turned her around.

"I talked with your manager," he told her as he steered the blonde woman back into her flat. "She said that you are to, under no circumstances, come to work today because you need to rest after your traumatic experience."

May rolled her eyes, pulling herself out of Sherlock's arms. "I'm perfectly fine, thank you. I need to work today—" Sherlock pressed a finger to her mouth, shushing her.

"Your expertise may come in handy if we're going to find your son in less than three days' time," he reminded her and that seemed to bring her crashing back into reality with a rude bump.

"Right," she said, wrapping her fingers together. "What's first?"

He pulled out his mobile phone and tracked down Lestrade's number. "Obey the law by calling Detective Inspector Lestrade at the Scotland Yard to inform him of an abduction," he replied, tapping the call button.

Lestrade picked up. "Nine in the morning, must be a new record for you," he said dryly. "Is this what you tried to call me about last night?"

"Yes," said Sherlock. "A three month old boy has been abducted and we have a time limit."

"Jesus," Lestrade muttered. "That's just not right. How long do we have?"

"Three days minus thirteen hours and thirty minutes," replied Sherlock promptly.

A breathy sigh issued from the DI. "Okay, I'll be over there with the missing persons team as soon as I can. Where are you?"

"122 Greenway Street," Sherlock said and hung up. Tucking his phone back into the pocket of his long jacket, he remembered the bag of groceries in his arms. He trotted up the stairs and began to put things away. May followed close behind, assisting him and telling him where certain things went. Even though her outward demeanor was mostly calm, an overpowering sense of panic and anxiety rolled off her in waves.

Soon, a tap on the door brought May and Sherlock back into the entryway. Lestrade and some mildly tolerable officers stood in the doorway.

Lestrade held out his hand to May. "Detective Inspector Lestrade," he introduced himself.

"May Harrison," said May, shaking Lestrade's hand. "Won't you come in?" She led the way up the stairs and disappeared into the kitchen to make tea.

"So, fill me in," Lestrade requested, sitting down and crossing his ankles.

"She was walking down the street and had stopped on a bench when a man in all black took her son from his buggy and got into a car. Her age is 27, occupation is counter attendant, she is a veteran intelligence officer, she had a fiance who lefter when her son—Charlie—was born, the kidnapper left this note—" he picked the original note up and the translated one as well, "—and it gave us the exact coordinates of where they are presumed to be.

Lestrade's eyebrows contracted. "Why would they do that? It's like they're putting the answer right in your lap! Wait," he said slowly. "What if this is all some trap?"

Sherlock shook his head. "It's not. May's heard extensively of the place and photographs my network have sent me match up exactly.

Lestrade dragged a hand through his silver hair. "This is just so bloody weird," he muttered into his palm.

May came back into the room with a tray balanced in her hands and gently set it on the table. She waited until everyone had a cup of tea in their hands before she said, "There are only two ways to get there." Looks of confusion prompted her to add, "The location. There are fifteen miles of terrain that are absolutely impossible to navigate by any kind of land vehicle. That leaves two options; by air or by foot. By air is a bit blatantly obvious and the place is surely armed to the teeth. That leaves by foot."

"But it's fifteen miles," said a person from the abduction team, folding his hands together. Before May could respond, her phone began to ring. The number appeared blocked, so she flipped it to speaker phone before answering. Instantly, the room grew still and quiet.

"Hello?" she murmured, her body as taut as a bowstring with nerves.

A crackly, distorted voice answered her. "Only two people, May. You and one other person. No more than that, or your son dies." The dial tone rang like a death knell and Sherlock leapt to his feet, scanning the room.

"We're bugged, this room is bugged," he said under his breath, striding around, running his fingers across bookshelves an peering at everything intently.

May swept her fingers across the back of her sweater, which she had been wearing the night before. "Found it," he groaned in frustration, prying it from the back of the sweater with difficulty, dropping it to the ground and grinding it into the ground with the heel of her shoe.

"We need a plan," said Lestrade decisively. "We have two and a half days. Ms. Harrison, you obviously know the area so you're going. We can only send one other person, though." The flat was positively stuffy with pensive silence.

"I'll do it," Sherlock said, surprising everyone. "Well, you didn't expect me to miss something like this, did you?" There was no way he was missing something so potentially interesting.

Lestrade was definitely restraining an eye roll mightily.

"We'll need black, warm clothing, backpacking supplies, lightweight but sturdy hiking shoes, and minimal weapons. A shotgun each would suffice," May ticked off, counting on her fingers. In response to a look from Lestrade and the team, she said, "Intelligence officer veteran, remember? I've done this before."

"Okay, we should get started with getting this stuff now," Lestrade said, getting up.

"I've got the black clothing and the shotgun, but nothing else," May said. "I know where we can get the rest of it, though."

For the next half hour, they discussed what they would have to do to get the things they required. A sense of urgency permeated the air. An infant's life was at stake.

**A/N: Review?**


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: Hello! Pardon yet another delay in updates. I haven't been getting many reviews, which has in turn been making me lazy. Actually, I've only gotten one review. Thanks much to the people who put it on alert and/or favorited it, though :)**

**And, sorry to those who read this, I'm putting this story on temporary hiatus, possibly until Christmas is over. Whenever a holiday rolls around, I like writing in the mood of the holiday, and my Phantom of the Opera fic (Constant Angel), and Life Goes on Within You and Without You (on my other account, PeaceLoveBeatles18) are the only ones realistically near to the Christmas season in their timelines. Therefore, I'll be focusing on them to get a Christmas chapter for each of them by the 25th of this month. It's possible I'll get done before then, so this may get updated. If not, I'm sorry.**

**A worthy note: This story is slightly AU in the aspect that this takes place after the Great Game and before A Scandal in Belgravia. I'm writing it so there is a long gap between the two.**

"... Thanks very much, sir," May finished up a phone call with a major at her old base. "You're very kind. Yes, I'll enjoy my trip, I'm sure." She pressed the end call button and looked up. "I've just called one of my ex-superiors and he says I can come pick up the backpacking supplies in thirty minutes, and also to enjoy my trip in which I'm teaching a friend—also known as Sherlock—basic survival skills." She saw Sherlock open his mouth, presumably to protest, and quickly added, "Yes, I know you already know all the most advanced survival skills, please just play along, okay? And, Detective Inspector?" she asked. "I'm thinking they won't supply us with weapons that could potentially go off, so would you be willing to handle that aspect?"

"Might take a bit of doing, but yeah. I think so," said Lestrade, nodding his head yes.

"It's a bit of a jaunt to the base, we should probably get going," May shook her blonde hair out of her eyes and started down the steps with Sherlock close behind. Most likely thinking ahead, Lestrade had brought a normal, unmarked car which Sherlock immediately requisitioned, getting in the passenger side.

May, who had to dart back inside to request the keys to the vehicle, got into the driver's seat moments later. For awhile, they drove in silence. It wasn't a comfortable silence, nor was it uncomfortable. While it wasn't awkward, the underlying sense of urgency that had been prevailing since the night before floated to the forefront of May's mind, and she could sort of sense that it was on Sherlock's mind as well.

Finally, May spoke up. "The major can be a bit patronizing, especially with people he doesn't know. It bothers me and I know it'll bother you even more, but _please_ don't say anything. I've described you as a shy, charming young man. Just... don't say much, okay? Hello, how are you, thank you, and goodbye will suffice." She knew very well that this remark had probably been deleted as soon as it got anywhere near that complexly wired brain. Therefore, she was prepared to interject with a well-placed trod upon his toes if worse came to worse.

At last, the car pulled up to the gate and May popped her head out the window to talk to the gate guard. "May Harrison and companion, here on appointment with Major Henderson."

The guard smiled at may, which made her mentally cringe. If her memory served her correctly, this was the guard with the rather well-deserved reputation of a lecherous, dirty old man. "Certainly, go right through."

"Incorrigible flirt, greasily charming, extremely long list of affairs and an even longer list of one-night stands. He's got an oblivious wife and takes full advantage of that fact," Sherlock spouted, hardly seeming to expunge any effort.

"Affirmative," May said, rolling her eyes in part at the irritating guard, and in part at Sherlock's need to deduce the daylights out of everything that would sit still long enough. "Now—"

"None of that sort of thing, I know," Sherlock interrupted, sounding for all the world like a sulky, belligerent child. But he had been listening to a certain extent.

May parked the car and led the way to the supply building, where she'd arranged the meeting with Major Henderson.

The major was a middle-aged man with average height, a rather stocky build, small yet twinkling gray-blue eyes, a clean-shaven face, and a jolly demeanor that could be a bit overwhelming if one wasn't ready.

"Major Henderson," May said, saluting sharply.

The man returned the salute. "Captain Harrison, how are you?"

May relaxed a bit. "Very well, sir. How are you?"

"Can't complain, can't complain," he said breezily. "Ah, so this is your friend, Michael Holm?"

"Yes, sir," May replied. "Promised him I'd show him a few simple tricks of the trade, isn't that right, Michael?" She gently nudged Sherlock's ankle with her foot, but he was way ahead of her.

"It certainly is. I'm afraid I haven't got much experience with anything outside of an office," he said sweetly, kicking her in return.

"You're in for an interesting trip, lad," Major Henderson boomed, clapping Sherlock on the shoulder firmly enough to make the detective stagger a bit. "She's a tough one, one of the best. Go easy on him, eh, May?"

"I'll try, sir," May said, picking up on Sherlock's increasing irritation and gathering up the packs and supplies. She inched toward the door quietly. "Have a nice day." She saluted once more and they were off.

Sherlock hardly made it until the door was closed to air his feelings. "What a truly repugnant individual," he remarked, making a face.

"He's not so bad once you get used to him," May said, starting the car. He merely huffed out a disbelieving breath.

Once back at May's flat, Lestrade and crew departed and May ran through how to pack the bag.

"A sweatshirt and a hat will be all you'll want for clothes that aren't on your back," she said, folding her college sweatshirt and ski hat and tossing them in carefully. "We'll take a day and a half's worth of food, because that's really all we'll need. And _yes, _you'll have to eat more than you usually do. You'll be burning a load of calories and if you don't eat, you'll faint. We can't afford for that to happen. Cans are heavy, we'll each take half of them." She tossed a small, rolled-up object at him. "Sleeping mat," she said. "Stick it in around the food. We don't need pillows ,but this is a thermal sleeping bag. You'll want it, we don't have a tent."

"I know all of this, you know," Sherlock said, packing his bag.

"I know, but I need to keep talking or I'm going to have a panic attack," May said, trying to calm the tremors starting in her hands. "Could you fill these up?" she asked, holding out a pair of metal water bottles. Wordlessly, and May noticed that that was how he did a lot of things, he took the water bottles and went into the kitchen. She took the opportunity to whip out her phone and send a quick text to John Watson, whose number she'd been given for emergency purposes.

_John. It's May. I need to talk to you ASAP. Can I come to Baker St. in 10 or so minutes?-May_

The reply came quickly. _Sure. Are you okay? And is Sherlock coming? -JW_

_ Thanks. No, I'm fine, I just need someone to talk to before all of this starts. And no. -May_

Her phone was safely in her pocket before Sherlock returned to the sitting room. She made sure her pack was neatly packed before she spoke again. "I need some fresh air," she said. "I'm going to take a walk and might stop by a friend's house." She drained her face of all emotion and thought, putting a blank canvas on display as she'd been trained to do. Holding her breath, she waited for him to call her out on it... but he didn't.

"Don't take too long, I want to get some hiking done today before it gets dark," he said, checking his mobile phone.

"Alright," she said, getting up and buttoning up her lightweight jacket. May tried her hardest not to sprint all the way to 221B. Baker Street.

John almost pulled the door open before she did."What's going on? Is everything okay?" his forehead was wrinkled with concern.

"It's just something I need someone to know before all of this swings into action," May said, stepping evidently did little to appease John's confusion.

"Okay, let's go upstairs and sit down," John offered. "I'm assuming I would prefer to sit down to hear this news?"

May smiled wryly. "Most likely," she said, thinking of an array of possible reactions.

"Shall I go make tea?" asked John. May shook her head no.

"Not unless you want to spit it all out again," she replied.

"Okay," he sat down, looking slightly apprehensive. "Tell me."

May sat down in Sherlock's chair, noting at once how comfortable it was. "You remember that Sherlock saw that I have an ex-fiance?"

"Yeah," John nodded, lacing his fingers together. "Does he have something to do with it? Because Sherlock texted me that he was pretty sure he did."

"As usual, Sherlock was right," May laughed humorlessly. "I'm ninety-nine precent positive that he did, but the exact motivation is unclear." She ran a hand through her hair, feeling a hundred years old.

"But that's not what you came to talk to me about," John correctly guessed.

"No, but it _is _a part of it," May replied. "Because, yet again, Sherlock was right. Jack Graeber, my ex-fiance, is _not_ the father of my child. And here's where he was wrong; I _do _know who the father is, or I do now, anyway," May took a deep breath to steady herself. "You need a little of my back history to understand why it is who it is. As you know, I was a mercenary spy." John nodded, remembering Sherlock's deductions. "My specialty was getting information from people who didn't easily talk. A full map of a person's strengths and weaknesses in two months, or less if I was really on form. That was my claim to fame. My employer, who I truthfully do not know the name of, had an obsession with a person. In fact, he probably still does. This person is possibly the most closed off, enigmatic person the world has ever seen. Naturally, I got assigned to him."

The crease between John's eyebrows was slowly and steadily returning. "Go on," he murmured.

"Initially," May continued. "Jack supported it. And it was just another job to me. I was sweet, flirty, caring, and smart. This man, no matter how tightly closed off he was, was broken. He'd just kicked an addiction and was weaker than he would've been otherwise. It wasn't fair or right, taking advantage of him like that, but those two concepts had no clear boundaries for me at that time of my life. For four months, I got him to trust me, be fascinated by me, even love me. Until the end of the four months, I didn't realize that he hadn't been the only one falling in love."

"So you fell in love with him?" John asked, seeking clarification.

"Yes," May nodded. "If I'd given the information I'd managed to procure about him to my employer, I would've destroyed him. One night, after a particularly hard day for him, he'd had far too much to drink when we'd gone out. I decided that it might be easier to leave if he was in a drunken slumber than if he was himself. What had started as a kiss goodbye turned into so much more. Before the sun rose, I really did leave and sought my employer, telling him I'd quit. Until Charlie was born, I'd convinced myself that he really was Jack's."

"And did this enigmatic man have a name?" John asked, looking like he already knew the answer, but was hoping he was wrong.

"Sherlock Holmes," May whispered hesitantly.

John nearly fell out of his chair and May was glad she'd advised against the tea. "You what—you and Sherlock—how—he's never—why—" he couldn't seem to string a sentence together.

"Bit unexpected, I know," she said sheepishly, waiting for the spluttering doctor to calm down a bit.

"Just a bit," he coughed, rubbing his forehead. "It's just that—Sherlock—you—wow," that seemed to be all he could manage. "So, Sherlock's a father. But how—"

"Hasn't he recognized me?" May finished his sentence. "Bleached, chin-length blonde hair, and looking more put together and well-fed makes a world of difference. Plus, he can read me now. He couldn't then and it used to drive him batty." She almost smiled, thinking of how it used to drive him up the wall when he couldn't read her like a cheap, paperback novel.

"You need to tell him," John said firmly. He needs to know this."

May shook her head. "I can't," she said.

John was clearly confused and irked about that particular response. "Well, why not? Sherlock's got a right to know if his own kid is in danger—God, that sounds odd." He massaged his temples.

"That's just the thing," May said. "You've known Sherlock for awhile now, you of all people should know what his hamartia is."

"Sorry, his what?" John asked.

"His hamartia, his fatal flaw. Or rather, fatal flaws, but I'm just talking about the one pertaining to now."

"Aren't fatal flaws only for heroes in tragedies?" John interjected. "You know, like in stories?"

"That's the literary term for it, but everybody has a particularly significant flaw that will end up being his or her undoing if they're not careful," May explained. "Can you guess what his are?"

"Tragically sarcastic, a perpetual arsehole," he quipped.

"Well, those are certainly things that could be considered wrong with him, but it's a need for things to be overly clever or complex and extreme loyalty or protectiveness or people he's close to. When Sherlock gets protective, he gets a bit stupid. And by stupid, I mean his judgment slips. He endangers himself by taking risks to save the thing important to him."

"And your old boss knows all of this," John gave her a burning look of accusation.

"Oh God, no," May shook her head vehemently. "I didn't. I couldn't. Sherlock Holmes have been a deadman the minute I handed it over." She dug around in her purse and pulled out a data stick. "This has not left my side for a year now. And this is what my ex-fiance and ex-employer—I'm nearly positive they're working together on this—want." John's eyebrows made a beeline for his hairline. "Sherlock doesn't know I have it and he doesn't know about Charlie being his. For everyone's safety, it would _not_ be a good idea to tell him."

"This doesn't make much sense to me, but I guess I can go along with it," John said slowly. "God knows I'm used to this sort of element of the unknown with Sherlock. Can I see a picture of Charlie?" he asked hesitantly.

"Sure," May smiled a smile that got stuck halfway up her face and pulled out her wallet. Her favorite picture of her son was one where he was simply staring up at the camera with his big, blue eyes and looking much wiser than his three months of age would suggest.

John took the picture and nodded, a tiny smile fighting for space on his mouth with the worried frown currently in occupancy. "Handsome little fellow. Looks just like his daddy." May blushed. A few minutes passed before John spoke again, contemplating something. "So, you never exactly told me why you're telling me this, other than the fact that you wanted someone to know—" he stopped abruptly. "Are you afraid that something might happen to you?"

"I'm afraid that it might take my life to ensure Charlie's safety and I want him to have a parent he can live with it comes to that," she said, betraying her intense fear for the first time as tears sprang to her eyes.

"Nothing's going to happen," John reassured her. "You're with Sherlock Holmes. I haven't been killed yet, though there was a close call about a week ago."

"The bombings?" May asked. "That was the work of my ex-employer. I could tell straight away." The speed at which John whipped around to look at her with a wild, scared expression on his face was almost superhuman.

"Your old boss was _Jim Moriarty?_" he yelped.

"Average height, average build, dark, maniac brown eyes, oddly perfect eyebrows, and a dangerously sweet Irish accent?" May listed the characteristics and John nodded, slowly turning a sickly, ashen color. "I told you I didn't know his name!" she said.

"Holy shit," John breathed, clenching the arm of his chair tightly. "That bastard is a menace, he strapped me to a load of Semtex and almost blew me up! He's the only man Sherlock's never beaten."

"I'm not surprised," May said. "I assume I just threw a major curveball into the game?" He nodded weakly. "I've got to go, could you alert Sherlock?" she received another nod. "And take this," she handed him the data stick. "Please get rid of it. Burn it, run it over, I don't care what you do. Just destroy it. And please don't tell him anything _but _that. Goodbye, John Watson."

"Goodbye," he said.

OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

John waited until May left 221B and then yanked his phone out to call Sherlock's number. He answered on the first part of the first ring.

"Hello?" Sherlock's voice answered curtly. He sounded distracted.

"It's him, Sherlock," John said, feeling an ice cold fear seep through him like he'd jumped into a lake in late fall.

"Who?" Sherlock asked, but John could tell he already knew.

"Jim bloody Moriarty, that's who. That's May's old boss."

All he heard was a sharp intake of breath from his flatmate. "April fool's day has come and gone, John," he said softly.

"I have never not been joking more than now," he said.

"Thank you," John was left with an earful of nothing and a stomach tying itself in complex knots. The stakes had just been raised exponentially.

**A/N: Review, please? :)**


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: So, how long has it been? Way too long. I wrote this sometime last week, but forgot to get it typed up until now. Enjoy, dear readers! If anyone's reading this, that is.**

When May got back to her flat, Sherlock seemed not to have moved at all since she left. But when he looked up at her, something in his eyes had changed minutely. "Shall we finish?" he inquired briskly, getting to his feet to close the packs properly.

"Yes," she nodded, bending down, retrieving a bundle of clothing, and throwing them to the man. "Go put these on," she instructed, pulling out a second bundle for herself. Pointing Sherlock in the direction of her bathroom, she slid into her bedroom and pulled the thermal, moisture-wicking, black clothing on. It conformed to her body, which would help her conserve body heat. A few experimental kicks above her head revealed that the fabric gave her easy mobility.

Pulling a pair of light wool socks on, she laced up a pair of hiking boots that weighed about the same as a pair of sneakers. They were flexible and durable, which was perfect given the circumstances. Her reasoning for pulling her thick blonde hair into a tight French braid was that it would centralize all of her hair. In case of a surprise attack, which was likely, a yank to her braid would hurt a lot less than someone grabbing a fistful of her hair and pulling.

Sherlock was waiting for her when she emerged. "I phoned Lestrade," he said quickly. May wondered if he ever spoke at a normal rate. "He'll be driving us as far as is possible. I believe he's picking John up as well.

May said nothing, but nodded to show she understood. Her heart was thudding in her chest at a painful rate. If they didn't save her—their, she reminded herself with a jolt—son, she didn't know if she could continue living. He was one of the only reasons she got out of bed in the morning.

Soon, an unmarked car pulled up outside her flat and Lestrade rang the doorbell. They met him at the door with their packs ready to go. "I'll fill you in on the way there," he said, his forehead lined heavily with worry. May could tell the fact that a baby boy had been abducted bothered him intensely.

John was also in the car and he gave Sherlock and May a brief hello before lapsing into pensive silence.

Once in the car, the Detective Inspector began to speak. "We have two days now. The plan is for the two of you to go as far as you can tonight, eat, sleep, and repeat. If you go fast enough, you might get there with about six hours to spare. We'll have you wired with small cameras that will allow us to see and hear what you're doing so we can send backup if necessary." The car pulled to a stop and Sherlock and May got out, pulling their backpacks from the trunk and hitching them up over their shoulders.

"Good luck," Lestrade said, patting May's shoulder and almost touching Sherlock's. "I hope everything goes as planned."

"Thank you, Detective Inspector," May murmured, staring intently into the deep green foliage as though she could pinpoint exactly where they were keeping her son. "So do I."

John got out of the car and saluted May, which she returned gratefully. A moment later, her phone beeped. Taking it out, she saw that she had two new messages.

The first one was from John: _I burned the data stick. Had to open all the windows at Baker Street and attack the place with air freshener (Sherlock may kill me for this) but it's gone. -JW_ She flashed him a grateful, but discreet smile after she read it.

The second made her heart come to a stuttering halt in her chest. _Let the games begin, my dear. -JM_ It took May all of two seconds to realize that a certain psychopathic ex-employer of hers had somehow gotten her mobile phone number.

Her bullheaded instinct kicked into high gear and she fired back a reply, her thumbs punching the buttons as though each and every one of them had done her personal injury. _Bring it, darling. -May._ Tucking the device back into her pocket, she looked up, eyes narrow and shoulders back. "Let's go," she said, disappearing into the woods.

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James Moriarty sat in front of his CCTV monitor, grinning with unrestrained pleasure. He kicked his feet up on the desk and watched the silly little group of people talk about their plans to get May Harrison's child back. He shifted the sleeping baby in his arms enough to get at his mobile phone and shot off a quick text to his former employee. He could tell the exact moment she got it; her eyes popped open and she scanned the surrounding area.

Her expression hardened and soon a reply dinged back to his phone.

Jim giggled with delight as he read it, careful not to wake Charlie, what an odd name that was. His mummy was _so_ amusing when she was angry. He could hardly wait for the next stage of the game to begin.

But not yet. For the time being, he would have to sit back and watch. He supposed he was fine with that; watching a plan unfold, especially when it's your own, was entertaining enough. "Oh I _will_ bring it, May Harrison," he murmured.

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May walked slightly in front of Sherlock since she was the only one who knew which way they needed to go. He didn't speak and neither did she. For once, his lack of inclination to conversation was welcome. May focused on the trail in front of her, when there was one, that is. Frequently, the slightly trodden ground would give way to a rocky, tree-filled hillside.

This would call for some careful maneuvering on their parts. After about two hours, they came to a cliff so steep that it would be impossible to get down without assistance from one another. "Grappling hooks," May remembered with a groan. "Damn it, I _knew _there was something I forgot to ask about." She stared down the slope hopelessly.

Sherlock didn't miss a beat in replying. "I'll climb down first, you toss me your pack and scale down backwards when I get to the bottom."

"But—" May started to protest, but her companion was gone. She peered over the edge and saw him quickly moving down the ledge. May wouldn't be at all surprised if he told her he was really Spiderman or something.

When he called to her, she removed her pack and several seconds later heard him catch it. Slowly, she began her descent. About halfway down, her feet slipped on clumps of wet moss and she pitched backward, away from the ledge. Her heart jumped into her throat, but she didn't scream. Years of training to be silent in high fear situations didn't allow her to. _Maybe if I make myself limp, I won't hurt myself too badly,_ she prayed, focusing on relaxing all of the parts of her body, a difficult thing in her present circumstances.

She never made it to the ground. With a huff of breath, she landed in something that felt a lot like Sherlock's arms. Sure enough it was. He set her on her feet and she brushed herself off before she picked up her pack. "Thank you," she acknowledged that he had just helped her evade serious injury.

He gave a tiny jerk of his head that she translated to be, _you're welcome_, and their journey continued silently, as before. It was beginning to get dark and May pulled a headlamp from her pack and turned it on so she could see more than a few feet in front of her.

May's stomach began to growl hungrily as total darkness began to set in, but she ignored it. They'd only gone about five miles and she wanted to get more done. _Come on, May,_ she thought firmly. Her feet began to get heavy and she stumbled a few times. Sherlock caught her arm, but she shook him off and proceeded to trip and fall to her knees. "Don't touch me," she gritted out between her teeth.

He sighed theatrically and hauled her to her feet. "Whenever you're ready to cease with this hero-playing lark will be fine by me," he said sharply. "If you keep going at this rate you'll soon faint. I don't think you can afford for that sort of thing to happen, do you?"

May stared at him incredulously. "You think I'm trying to play the hero?" she asked, eyes burning into Sherlock's angrily.

For the first time in a long time, she caught Sherlock Holmes completely off guard. He soon bounced back, however. "The way you keep marching on, you're setting yourself up to become a martyr. So if you you're being brave—" May shocked herself and Sherlock by whipping him into a hold that he couldn't twist out of.

"Let me tell you something about heroes and bravery, Sherlock Holmes," she snarled. "Bravery and heroism aren't often directly connected. First, to set the record straight, I don't fancy myself a hero. More of a desperate mother who will do anything do get her kidnapped child back. But, back to the subject of heroes. Nine times out of ten, a hero isn't brave at all. Nine times out of ten, a hero is someone who is tired enough, angry enough, or desperate enough not to give a damn about what might happen to them. Right now, I don't give a damn." She released him. "Are we clear?"

Without waiting for a reply, she pulled her backpack off and pulled out two MRE's. Tossing one in Sherlock's general direction, she yanked her sleeping bag out, set it up at the foot of a tree, and sat down. Opening her food, she aimed her headlamp at it so she could actually see what she was eating. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Sherlock doing the same thing. He was actually eating without being begged, cajoled, or threatened. _One for the record book_, May thought, finishing off her food and tugging her sweatshirt over her head.

"One of us needs to sleep, do you want first watch or do you want me to take it?" Sherlock asked, unrolling his sleeping bag about a foot from hers. The fact that he wasn't insisting that he would take it suggested to May that he knew she needed to distract her brain from the present situation.

"I'll take it, you sleep," she said, sitting cross-legged on her sleeping bag and growing quiet. She knew he wasn't going to sleep.

OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoO

Jim really wished he'd popped some popcorn or something beforehand, because this was just far too entertaining. Maybe he'd ask Jack or Seb to bring him some after they finished getting everything ready for tomorrow. He watched May take Sherlock down a few pegs and grinned like a cat who has just received a large saucer of cream. This was perfect, absolutely perfect.

Now Sherlock was laying down, but he wasn't sleeping. That man never did sleep. May sat up on her makeshift bed. Jim tapped his fingers impatiently. He so wanted to get his plan started, but the time hadn't come yet. Soon, but not yet. Dragging a hand across his face with boredom, he paged Seb and Jack.

They arrived roughly two seconds later, chests heaving and salutes sharp. "Oh, at ease already,' he waved a hand at them lazily. "Is everything ready?"

Jack nodded, a lock of red hair falling into his eyes. He pushed it away. "Yes, sir. Everything is in place now. All we have to do is wait."

"Tomorrow morning at first light," Jim instructed. "That's when I want it all to start."

They nodded together. "Will that be all, sir?" Sebastian asked. Jim shook his head yes and allowed them to see themselves out.

"Oh!" he remembered. "Seb?" The tall, blonde man turned around.

"Yes, sir?"

"Could you pop me some popcorn?"

OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoO

At one am, Sherlock sat up in his sleeping bag and touched May's arm. She jumped almost imperceptibly and turned to him. She looked absolutely exhausted, but she also looked extremely tense. "It's one in the morning, it's my watch now," he told her.

May slumped into her sleeping bag without argument and was soon fast asleep. Sherlock tuned his senses to their surroundings and sat up straight, adopting an almost meditative state of mind. While he kept watch, he thought about what the ex-spy had said to him. Not only had that been the first time in a long time that anyone had put him into a headlock, it was the first time anyone had said something like that to him.

What on Earth did it mean, thought? He was stumped, an infrequent occurrence, and shoved the thought to the back of his mind to be dealt with later. For the time being, he had to concentrate on the dark, silent forest. Moriarty was watching them, he knew that much. It would be foolish to assume that they had gone unnoticed.

And yet, he could not shake the feeling that they were running headlong into a trap.

Sherlock looked down at May's sleeping form. Even when she was asleep, she wasn't peaceful. Her brow was furrowed into a worried frown and she moved restlessly, mumbling to herself. She looked so familiar and it was killing him not knowing how or why. He suspected he might have at least partially deleted the memory that would explain it.

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When John Watson woke up from what he had meant to be a short nap in the back of the police car he knew at once that something was wrong. The cool breeze of early morning was dancing across his face, his head was throbbing like he had the mother of all hangovers, and he was bound in the sitting position to a tree.

He groaned when he realized this last part because his legs were starting to go a bit numb. Cracking his neck to relieve some of the tension in it, he rolled his head back and forth a few times. Suddenly, he became aware that there was something in his arms. Something warm. Something... _Oh holy hell._ He looked down, wincing a little, and fixed his gaze on a sleeping baby resting in his arms. But that could only mean...

"Oh, shit," he breathed, looking at May's son. "This might just be my pessimistic side making an appearance, but I think this may be a bit not good."

"Why ever would you think that, Johnny boy?"

John cringed when the silky voice floated into his ears. _No_, he thought._ This is _not_ happening. Not you. Not now._ Jim Moriarty, dressed impeccably as always, meandered casually over to where John was tied up and crouched down in front of him. John tried his hardest not to show he was scared out of his mind.

"Well, isn't this precious?" the madman cooed. The army doctor glared at him emotionlessly. "Oh come now, Doctor Watson. Even you have to admit that this is cute. This is just such a natural look for you." Moriarty paused, venom leaking into his expression and permeating his words. "It's such a shame he's not yours. I'm sure you'd be a better father than, say... _Sherlock Holmes._"

"What the hell are you on about?" John spat, tamping down the fact that his blood was running ice cold in his veins.

"Don't play thick, Doctor Watson," Moriarty rolled his eyes languidly. "It ill suits you. You'll see in due time."

As the psychopath walked away to board a chopper, John wished his mouth weren't bone dry so he could spit defiantly. He gazed down at the slumbering child and heaved a long sigh. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Lestrade and the rest of the police team beginning to stir and felt himself deflate. How had so much gone so wrong?

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A feather-light touch to May's shoulder was all that was needed to jolt her out of her light sleep. She jackknifed to her feet and adrenaline surged through her veins. "What?" she hissed.

"Do try to stop nearly beheading me," Sherlock said drily from behind her. "Pack up, I've been hearing movement nearby."

"I'll stop when _you_ stop scaring me half to death!" she growled, shoving her belongings into the bag hurriedly. "You know I've got a reaction to being surprised." A soft noise made her ears hone in on the source. It was a male voice counting back from ten slowly. "Forget your belongings, run!"

They took off running, hearts pounding in fear, or at least May's was. Figures clothed in all black converged on them. They held weapons, but they didn't look like normal guns. She recognized them instantly as stun guns.

Three of them chose May as their target and she roundhouse kicked the first solidly in the face, staggering back at the impact. He collapsed and May silently cursed herself for being so stupid. Her momentum was off now, giving her a serious disadvantage.

Clasping her hands together, she swung them over her head and brought them down on another man's shoulder, making him howl with pain and drop his weapon. Seeing her chance, she dove for the dropped gun. Her fingers were just closing around the handle when a shock tore through the center of her back. May screamed and arched her back in pain, rolling onto her back and jumping to her feet.

She became a blur, landing kicks and punches as quickly as she could. Every time she took an assailant out, one seemed to be waiting to take their place. Glancing quickly to her left, she spied Sherlock landing strike after strike with the fluid grace of a king cobra. Her right eye was rapidly swelling shut and the metallic tang of blood was heavy in her mouth.

After landing a well-placed knee to one of the men's nether regions, May saw a puff of smoke go off behind her. "Fuck," she swore, fighting harder to get out of the way before it hit her. It was, in all likelihood, knockout gas. "Gas!" she cried to alert Sherlock, feeling her limbs get numb. Tripping over her now-leaden feet, she pushed herself up and kept going, knowing she wouldn't last much longer. Without any warning, a burning shock sliced through her side, lasting much longer than the first one, and the world spun at an alarming rate before fading to black.

Her last thought before she was pulled under was, _I'm so sorry, Charlie. Mummy's sorry._

**A/N: Review? :)**


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: Nothing in particular to say here... enjoy!**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock. It belongs to the wonderful, yet somewhat twisted, writing team that is Mofftiss. FILMING TODAY! On my birthday! :D**

There was a pounding in Sherlock Holmes' head like he'd never felt before. Holding back a groan, he sat up and ran a careful hand all over his face and head, wincing imperceptibly when his fingers encountered a knot at the base of his skull. Slowly, his eyes slid back into focus and he scanned his surroundings. May was sprawled out beside him, her eye that was visible was clearly swollen and a dazzling array of purples, blues, blacks, yellows, and greens. A tiny surge of irrational anger flowed through him. Frowning, he banished the emotion. Of all times to feel sentiment, this was not a good one.

Suddenly, his eyes homed in on two video screens. One was currently empty, the other showed John, Lestrade, and the rest of the abduction team. They were all tied up, had clearly been drugged as he and May had been, and John was holding a baby. A _baby._ May's baby.

John noticed Sherlock stirring. "Sherlock? Are you okay?"

Sherlock smirked, making a note not to do so again as it seemed he had a significant bruise on his right cheek. "Just peachy."

John glared at him, clearly not amused. "Not funny at all, Sherlock. In case you haven't noticed, we have a bit of a bloody problem!"

He was opening his mouth to answer a comment that simply sat up and begged for a sarcastic response, but a moan from May distracted him. She was struggling to sit up, a hand delicately exploring the damage done to her face.

"Ugh," she growled. "I think I may kill whoever gave me this shiner."

"You don't have a concussion, do you?" Sherlock inquired, hoping she wasn't. It would be hard enough to get out mildly unscathed with both of them functioning properly.

"Well, aren't we Mr. Tact-and-Concern today?" she said dryly. "I'm fine. Banged up, sure, but no—" her gaze went distant and then became crystal sharp. She'd seen her son.

"Charlie," she breathed, the name catching in her throat as though it had become far too big for the space it tried to occupy. She got up, wobbled, and got as close to the screen as she was able.

"Oh God, _Charlie. _John, is he all right?" she choked and Sherlock was unsurprised to see tears racing down her face. Motherly sentiment, he supposed.

"He's okay," John assured her gently. "Although, we're a bit tied up at this end." She appeared to notice the ropes binding the people on the screen. Her eyes went slitty.

"Come on!" she shouted, her voice echoing off the weathered gray stone walls. "I know you're listening in. Be a man and face me, you bastard!" There was, predictably, no answer.

"What good did you expect that to do?" Sherlock queried. She rounded on him.

"None whatsoever, but it made me feel better so _shut up_," she hissed.

"Well, this is quite entertaining but I think it's best to keep this moving, don't you?" a voice that Sherlock hated more than just about anything came from the second screen. James Moriarty, consulting criminal, May's ex-employer.

"You've reduced yourself to kidnapping children, and babies no less? How pathetic you've become in just a few days," Sherlock drawled, a languid, lazy demeanor masking a surge of adrenaline pumping through his veins.

"That was some sloppy job you did getting in here," Moriarty slid in front of the camera, dark maniac eyes smoldering dangerously. "Did you think there wouldn't be cameras everywhere? I saw you the moment you set foot at the edge of the forest."

Sherlock looked sharply at May and cursed himself for missing such a crucial clue. May had known all along they wouldn't last very long. Her plan had been to get captured as a way to get on the inside. "Of course," he said, his voice clipped and short.

"I believe you mean _she_ knew," Moriarty interjected. "She would know, she put the cameras in herself. And speaking of the lovely May Harrison—" he directed his attention to the livid young woman, "—You have something that's been due to me for quite some time. Where is it?"

His comment only served to tighten the corners of her mouth. "I don't have it," she snapped.

"How do I know you aren't lying? You were _such_ a good liar, May."

"I had it burned," she growled. Moriarty began to speak, presumably to dispute her statement, but John interrupted him.

"I burned it myself in the fireplace at the flat, go poke around if you'd like." There was a distinct 'I'd love to shove you up the chimney and leave you there' vibe implied in the spoken statement. The madman sensed it, letting out a giggle that grated on Sherlock's eardrums like nails on a chalkboard. _What kind of grown man giggles, for God's sake?_

"Did you really? Do you honestly think that would stop me from getting what I wanted?"

A red dot appeared on May's forehead, closely followed by two more on her chest. She looked down and her face went a shade whiter, highlighting her black eye even more. "You're nothing if you're not predictable," she said, doing nothing to betray her emotions. "Invisible marksmen? Again? Hello, Jack and Seb!" She waved sarcastically at the walls.

"Hey baby," another male slid into the frame in the camera, and Sherlock assumed this was Jack, given the ironic use of an endearing term. "You look like hell."

"Glad to hear it. You gained weight," she fired back. "Getting soft, are you?"

The two stared each other down for a long moment, until Moriarty spoke up again. "You know, Doctor Watson, I've said it and I'll say it again. That is _such_ a natural look for you and it is just a pity he isn't yours."

"I agree," May threw her two cents in, a faint sneer curling her lip. The sneer was hiding a bottom lip that would be quivering otherwise. "He'd have been a damn sight better than Jack. Might've stuck around and cared about his son." The corner of John's mouth twitched slightly. So, May had told him what was going on. Sherlock was a little more than annoyed that he'd been left out of the loop.

"Oh May, you didn't think I'd actually believe that Jack was the father, did you?" the consulting criminal's voice was soft, patronizing, deadly.

"Well, who's the father, then?" she demanded. "Do you even know?"

"Perhaps," he replied. "But you do and I want you to tell me. And, while you're at it, tell me about the information that you so thoughtfully burned. I know you remember it all."

"And if I refuse?"

"I don't think you will."

Sherlock saw a pinpoint appear on John's forehead, Lestrade's chest, the foreheads and chests of the other officers,and he knew there must be at least one on him. A gusty sigh that he hoped came across as entirely bored with this whole affair escaped his lips.

A satisfied smile, not unlike the one a cat might have if he knows he's got a mouse good and cornered, crossed Moriarty's face. "You were saying?"

"Look, could you lot all get off the screens? It's hard enough to say this when no one's looking, harder when you're all ogling me."

"Of course," Moriarty nodded, switching the screens to gray fuzz. They knew the monitors were still carrying sound, however.

"Why wouldn't you want to have them look at you?" Sherlock muttered to himself, more of an audible thought than an actual question.

"I'm not at all proud of my past and I'm sorry about all of it," she said, her face curiously blank. She reminded him so much of someone, and yet he just couldn't place it. But why was she apologizing to him?

"Why?"

She took a long, deep breath. "I'm going to start relaying the records now, please don't interrupt me for any reason. One year ago, a woman was asked to do a job. She was told to get a man to fall in love with her, to get him to trust her, and to tell her things about himself. This woman knew she would be destroying the man with the information she garnered, so she chose a name that she hoped would warn him of the harm she would cause him. Her name meant 'that which is not, a cosmic illusion' in the Sanskrit language: Maya. She chose the last name Love as an added warning.

"The woman was one of the best at her job and even though this man was one of the smartest in the world, she pushed her way through the chinks in his mental armor and claimed his heart for her own, extracting the necessary information. Over time, however, the woman began to feel a strong emotion for the man, one she wasn't supposed to feel. It was love; the most dangerous an destructive emotion of all.

"One realization made itself known to her. If she told her employer every scrap of information she had on the man, he would instantly become a dead man walking. She loved him too much to let that happen now.

"Do you want to know what she found? The man was one of the smartest and sharpest people in the world, and he could be incredibly rude at times when he felt someone was being stupid and ignoring the obvious. He could tell you things you didn't even know about yourself and he wasn't always gentle about it. But, he could be very kind if the mood struck him."

May's voice was shaking with the strain of trying not to cry, and Sherlock's expression had gone blank. Memories he thought he'd deleted were popping up left and right, but they were fuzzy like a bad-quality black and white film.

"So, she made up her mind," May continued, eyes shut tight. "She would leave him and tell her boss that she had failed. The plan had been to leave at night, but both she and the man gave in to sentiment after a night out and made love. The woman left before the sun came up and quit both of her jobs. Soon, she realized she was pregnant. For awhile, she convinced herself the child belonged to her fiance, even though there was no way."

May took a step forward, tears glimmering brightly in her eyes. One shaking hand came up and haltingly took hold of Sherlock's chin, forcing him to look at her. "That man was you, Sherlock. You may think you deleted those memories, but nothing is ever truly deleted. Do you remember at all?"

With a start, Sherlock realized he did indeed remember. He remembered Maya, remembered how much he had loved her, and how much his heart had been shattered when he'd realized she'd left. But that would mean... His heart nearly stopped. Charlie was his son. He was a father. For a moment, his brain went numb with shock.

A wave of anger rippled through him. He'd been tricked, duped. And he'd fallen for it too. "I remember," he said shortly, his voice flat. She cringed.

I'm sure you must hate me," she said, slowly turning away from him and bringing her hands behind her back. The monitors were still off, but she was now using sign language to communicate with him. _I know you probably hate me, I would hate me too if I were you. But we're going to need to work together if we expect either of us to make it out alive. Please, for the sake of our son. Moriarty won't really want to kill you, just me if he can. When we have the chance to escape, you mustn't come back for me if anything should happen. Not for anything, no matter what._

He nodded to show he understood and soon after the cameras flicked back on. Jack was in plain view and the expression on his face was one of pure venom. "I knew that little brat wasn't mine," he said, lip pulling back over his teeth in a feral way.

"Thank heaven for small miracles," May retorted. "I shudder to think what kind of a life my son would have if you were." Sherlock saw her hands shaking. _She's almost breaking down and yet, her face is completely composed. _

"Such a feisty little thing," Moriarty purred, a smile as fake as his sweet tone. "Your little story was entertaining to listen to, I must say. Though it sounded a bit incomplete. I suppose love got in your way a little." He clapped his hands together briskly. "Now, you remember what entertainment forms I prefer?"

May's fists clenched tightly. "That was entertainment? How silly of me, I thought you were _torturing _those poor people that whole time."

Moriarty's face was impassive, continuing as if she hadn't spoken. "You've seen them happen often enough. It's high time you participated."

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May's heart stuttered in her chest, nearly coming to a full-fledged halt. _No._ She'd seen men and women, some of the strongest she'd ever known, reduced to mere shells of their former selves. The mental abuse that occurred made any physical harm pale in comparison. It ranged from facing one's greatest fear, to being forced to kill someone one loved, to being driven out of one's mind with pain or the anticipation thereof.

She couldn't go through that, and it wasn't because she was afraid. She wasn't. It was because of her son. There was no doubt he'd be in capable hands, more than capable, even.

But they wouldn't be her hands.

"Well?" Moriarty's voice interrupted her thoughts. Charlie woke and began to cry quietly. It was a tired sort of cry and it tore at May's heart.

She heard herself saying, "Bring it on, Consultant Criminal."

"Then pick up your sword."

**A/N: Pardon the cliffy, apologies. I won't be writing at all next week since I'll be enjoying my spring break, so it may be a bit before the next update.**

**Review? :)**


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: Been awhile, sorry. Balancing five stories is crazy difficult.**

**I don't own Sherlock or the actors. Sherlock belongs to Sir ACD and Mofftiss and the actors belong to themselves.**

May's brows contracted in confusion. She had never heard of Moriarty using this particular form of 'entertainment'. "Sorry, what?" she asked, hands on her hips. Her eye was throbbing again, reminding her just exactly how swollen it was.

"You are proficient in swordplay, are you not?" She had no idea how he could know that. It had been a college club thing; she hadn't held a sword in years. Although, Moriarty probably knew everyone's back history who worked for him down to the very finest details.

"Not exactly," she said, her heart wrenching in two at the sound of Charlie's ever-escalating crying. He was wailing at the top of his lungs now and John seemed to not quite be able to calm him down due to his situation.

"No matter." A smirk rippled across the maniac's face. "You will see a sword and shield in the far left corner of the room. Go to them and you will find a door. If you wish your friends to continue their existence, I suggest doing what I ask." His voice was pleasant enough, but May knew well enough that James Moriarty was at his most dangerous when he sounded the happiest.

Slowly, May made her way to the designated spot. The sword was extraordinarily old-fashioned with a stout leather-bound hilt and a finely sharp blade with a blood-gutter down the middle. Given the length of the weapon it was more a performance item than it was a purposeful one, but she supposed that she shouldn't be surprised overly much. Hefting it in her hand, she tossed it from palm to palm to test the balance, feeling the heavy, deadly weight slap against her bare skin.

Ordinarily, she would have put bracer pads on her wrists and shins, a lightweight breastplate, some minimal chain mail, and a light helmet of some sort. This time, all she had was a shield that looked like it was more of a prop from a play than anything. Was it unexpected? Not exactly. She'd surmised it would be something like this, in other words, it would be like underground, bare-knuckled, no-holds-barred boxing similar to what went on in gambling communities sometimes.

_Please let my skills be as good as they were in college,_ she prayed, lifting the shield and stepping through the doorway with the sword held aloft, preparing for any sudden attacks that might be thrown at her. It didn't take long for her fighting partner to come from seemingly nowhere. She was small and wiry with a determined, haggard face that made her look far older than May knew she was. It was one of her friends from back when she still worked for the Consulting Criminal.

"Laura," she whispered in disbelief. Her onetime friend scowled darkly, circling her tightly like a wild animal.

"That's my name," she spat. May circled her as well, sword held up at chest level in a block position.

"Why?" The one word question asked so much. _Why are you fighting? Didn't you leave? Did you come back or did he make you?_

"Why not?"

"You know why I'm asking."

"Do I?"

May sighed, tired of beating around the bush and angry at the woman for going back to the madman, no matter which way it happened. "Yep." Her voice was clipped. She lunged in suddenly, immediately catching Laura in the shin. She only cut the material of her pants though. It wasn't a blow intended to injure. It was a warning.

Laura retaliated swiftly with a sharp cut aimed at May's throat. It was a wild, reckless strike that came from pure pent-up anger and frustration. May easily blocked it with her own weapon, twisting from the hilt and sending them both reeling backwards.

"Getting soft, are we? I always knew you would. With a strike like I just made you could've killed me and been done," Laura grunted, pitching herself forward again.

"Yeah, 'bout as soft as this steel right here. Thought you cut out on this place." The conversation was strained and interrupted as they darted in and out, but it wasn't unusual to talk while fighting. It was one tactic often used by May when she sparred in college to try and get the upper hand by distracting her partner.

"I came back, problem?" May bit her lip hard enough to draw blood when the woman's sword caught her on her shield arm when she misplaced a block and sliced a long and shallow gash down the side of her arm like filleting a fish.

"No one comes back. You know that." They were either killed or spent the rest of their life on the run in secret.

"_I _did."

"_Especially_ when you leave like you did." She referred to the fact that Laura had run away, determined to start a new life away from the horrors of her job.

"Boss likes me, told him I made a mistake," Laura licked her lips.

"Does he? Does he really?" May knew her tone drove the point home when Laura's eyes went slitty and she started hacking like a woman possessed. It was all she could do to keep the blade far enough from her face to keep it from doing serious damage.

She became a whirling dervish, taking long cuts and strikes, body spinning in and out, twisting like the faded serpent decorating her shield. She fought for her life, for Sherlock's, for John's, for the lives of the policemen, for Charlie. The blade hardly touched her again, only a nick on her cheekbone that sent the metallic taste of blood into her mouth.

Laura's stringy red hair tumbled free of its' restraints, flying in her face and creating a momentary blind spot. May saw her chance and took it, hooking the underside of her hilt with Laura's and sending the other blade skittering to the floor as Laura fell onto her back and May's sword followed her, hovering inches from her neck. She bent over her adversary, looking into her wide, scared eyes.

"Do it," she whispered. "Just get it done."

"Not 'til I get information on why you're here," May hissed. "You hated this place more than me and that's saying a hell of a lot. I think you owe me an explanation."

"He found me," Laura rasped quietly, chest heaving up and down with blood gushing from a wound on her shoulder. "Made me come back. Been doing this for a year."

"Oh," May managed, still hovering with the sword to keep up appearances. There was no way she could actually snuff out the life of the one person she'd known she could trust completely.

"When you kill me, he's going to let you try to run." May knew the _try_ was the key word in the sentence. It was rare that anyone actually got away from that place. At that point however, death became a blessed freedom.

"Who says I'm going to kill you?"

"You have to. It's part of the rules. Anyway—" She was unsurprised to hear Laura talking in such an offhand way about her own death. It was her way of dealing with extremely stressful situations. "—Once you do that, you have to run like hell. If you get back to where you came out in time, he might let you live. But you've got to book it."

She sucked in a long breath. "And if I say you're coming too?"

"I can't." Her voice was a pained gasp. She was losing blood fast.

"Too bad."

May stood up boldly and threw her items down. "Oh come now," Jim's cringe-worthy voice fluttered into her ears. "You haven't finished yet. Off you pop, then."

"I made my point. I call that finished," she retorted. She could hear John murmuring from the monitor in the next room. Charlie had stopped crying for the most part, now he was just whimpering. It hurt May's heart more than the full-on sobbing.

"Do you? Well, this should be interesting. I'll let our dear Sherlock in with you for a few moments so you can, erm, _tidy up_ a bit."

A second later, Sherlock popped his head around the door. A brief tremor passed across his forehead in the form of a frown at the sight of her wounded arm and face. In silence, as ever it seemed, he tore a strip of fabric from the hem of his shirt, but hesitated when he got to her. They both knew it would hurt like no tomorrow, but also that she would need it to keep from losing too much blood.

"Just do it," she shut her eyes and gritted her teeth. His cool fingers bound the fabric tightly around her injured arm, making her wince as it burned like it was a fresh wound again. When he finished, she examined his work. It was done well; he clearly knew what he was doing. "Laura next."

"But isn't—"

"She's a friend. Misguided, but she's seen what she needs to to move past this lifestyle."

"Very well." He nodded once, taking the fabric May tore from her own shirt to bind Laura's shoulder to staunch the bleeding. She stuffed her free fist into her mouth to keep herself quiet while the fabric was tied over her gash. It seemed to be only a moment later that Moriarty glided in, appearing in all of his sinister glory.

"Ah, I see you've betrayed me once again my dear," he addressed Laura first, walking up to her and tracing a hand across her jaw lightly. She shuddered, but refused to back up even a fraction of a step.

"An honor and a pleasure," she spat, wincing when he clasped her shoulder purposefully.

"I'm sure. You're aware what happens now, aren't you?"

"Run for our lives? How utterly obvious and tedious," Sherlock interjected, seemingly bored out of his mind.

"I'll see if your answer changes in the next five minutes or so. You'll have twelve hours to get back to where you were. If you don't... well, you've got imaginations. Use them. It's so much funnier that way." A wide smile painted itself across his face and he exited the room.

As soon as he was gone, Laura turned around with an urgent look. "May, we can't stick together. You and Mr. Holmes go where you need to. I'll split off to buy you more time."

"But—"

"I've made more than my share of mistakes in life. I expect it's time I paid for some of them."

Knowing it would just be wasting time to argue, she nodded weakly to her hugged her tightly. Afterward, she cast Sherlock a glance. His pale eyes glittered with a flinty, unreadable emotion. "Now?" she whispered to him.

_"Now._"

OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoO

John's eyes narrowed to slits when the black-clad snipers approached where they sat tied up. He shifted as best as he could to protect the child in his arms. To his surprise, they began to undo the tight bonds. "What the hell?" he spat.

"Cool off, Doctor Watson," a voice huffed impatiently. "Orders came through to let you and your friends go, sort of."

"Explain the bloody 'sort of'," he growled, fighting the urge to deck the man then and there. It wouldn't do them any good; the men had guns and outsized him by a fair amount. They snatched Charlie roughly from his arms and the baby awoke instantly, whimpering again. John took him back as soon as he could, rocking him soothingly back and forth. The child was sort of like his nephew, he supposed.

"You're to stay here, don't call for backup, don't move from this spot," a lean, almost scrawny looking sniper ordered. "If your friends get back to you, you're free to go. If after twelve hours they don't make it, get in those cars and leave. Do not come back. Take the baby with you." John opened his mouth to dispute, but Lestrade interrupted him with a severe look.

"Understood," he revised his earlier statement which involved a colorful array of profanity and nodded curtly. The snipers walked away, their overconfident swaggering making John sick to his stomach. He snapped his head around to look at the Detective Inspector in a way that was part confusion and part accusation. He supplied the infuriated ex-army doctor with an explanation of his actions. "Don't anger them, they're the ones with the guns remember?"

"How could I forget?" John remarked dryly. "We're not going to just stand by though, are we?" he asked angrily. "Look at them!" He jerked his head sharply in the direction of the video monitors.

Sure enough, Sherlock and May were on the screen. They dashed through the forest at a near breakneck speed, a group of Moriarty's crew hot on their heels. There was a bandage on May's left arm, which reminded him of the earlier clash of swords.

Even though he'd been horrified at the fact that he psychopath was making the two women fight like gladiators, he couldn't help but be somewhat fascinated at the display of skill.

Something nearly superhuman seemed to come over May when she fought. Most people got a sort of inhuman bloodlust look on their face. May looked more human than ever. Her eyes were always focused entirely on her target, pulsing with an emotion of some sort. John hadn't been able to get a close enough look to tell exactly which kind.

She had clearly spent a long time training in that form of fighting, because she was fantastic. The blade of her sword became no more than a deadly shimmer that flashed from place to place in the room faster than you could blink. Her opponent was excellent too, and they fought with a sort of familiarity that came with working closely for years and knowing exactly where each other's weak points were. Their bodies twisted together and apart like some sot of macabre dance of death.

When May had won, she stood over her fallen adversary's body longer than she should've. John surmised they had probably reconciled with each other and were attempting to formulate a spur-of-the-moment plan to get out alive. When they ran, the other woman left in the opposite direction, leaping over a set of bushes like a spooked deer. _She was trying to buy Sherlock and May more time, if that isn't selfless than I haven't a clue what is, _he thought.

The diversion hadn't worked very well; mere minutes after the running began, the loud crack of a gun sounded and the cameras switched to see a body falling to the ground like a marionette whose strings have been recently cut. His breath caught in his throat, involuntary tears burning his eyes briefly. They killed her without a second thought. The women of the abduction team wept silently in grief and in anger.

"John?" Lestrade's voice cut into his thoughts, startling him.

"...Sorry, thinking. Yeah?" He bounced the child in his arms gently.

"I see them." The DI's voice was gruff. "It breaks my heart too. And... I've got an untraceable mobile on me. I've sent a message back to the Yard with our coordinates. They'll send a chopper," he said out of the corner of his mouth and John noticed for the first time that Lestrade still held his hands behind his back. Now he knew why.

"Will it work?" John knew not to get his hopes up too far.

"I hope so, because this is absolutely our last chance to help them."

"Won't the snipers notice?"

"With any luck, they won't see it coming until it's too late."

_Luck,_ John repeated in his head. They were going to need a lot of that.

OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoO

May leapt over a bush and skittered sideways on the trail until she could get her footing. They'd been running for what seemed like days when really, it'd just been a bit over an hour. Her chest heaved up and down wildly as she scanned the foliage for shadowy figures and cameras. She'd liberated a gun from one of Moriarty's crew that Sherlock had knocked out—his ammunition too—and was slowly picking off any cameras she saw. By her count, at least ten or so had bitten the dust at her hand.

She heard a click and knew it was the safety of a gun. "Get down!" she hissed forward to Sherlock. He ignored her and kept moving. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a finger on a trigger begin to squeeze. Without thinking, she launched herself forward and tackled Sherlock to the ground. No sooner had they hit the ground than did a bullet go whistling by overhead, accompanied by the customary resounding explosion.

Sherlock looked up at her in shock, or as close to shock as he could get. During their fall, he'd twisted and landed on his back, causing her to land on his chest. Their noses were practically touching. "The next time I say get down, do it will you?" she huffed, raising the shotgun and firing off a round in the direction of their would-be murderer. A cringe rippled through her body when she heard the bullet hit home. She rolled off Sherlock and got up quickly, giving him a dark glare.

"It would have missed," he shrugged, taking a quick glance around and running off at a slightly slower pace than before.

She looked at the position of the bullet hole in the tree. "It would have hit you square in the temple, I can see that from where it is. You're welcome, by the way." May took off, brushing a strand of loose hair out of her eyes.

Two words reached her ears that she thought she would never, ever hear from the mouth of Sherlock Holmes. "Thank you," he murmured around the sound of his heavy breathing. She increased her speed until she was beside him, shooting him a look before taking off ahead of him.

Roughly two minutes later a shot fired over their heads, causing them to duck beneath some bushes, trying their hardest to control their breathing. _Warning shot,_ May mouthed. Sherlock nodded tightly.

_I know,_ he mouthed in return. _They'll shoot as soon as we pop up again._

May's eyes turned rock hard. _Then we'll just have to be faster, won't we?_

On May's signal, they burst through the bushes with a gun held aloft. Two shots dispatched the first two men in front of them sufficiently enough for them to go crashing through them and run like there was fire nipping at their heels.

The men weren't dead, May's aim was good enough to just impair them enough to keep them out of the way. Her arms pumped like pistons on a runaway train as her feet churned the ground. Soon, they came skidding to a stop in front of yet another drop down, somewhat like the one they'd come across the night before. Thankfully, this one was short enough that they could just take a leap and keep going.

She flung herself off the ledge, feet piked like a long jumper at the Olympics. _Please, don't let me fall_, she prayed seconds before her feet made contact with solid ground and she was off again. A huff of breath forced itself from her chest and she took a cursory glance back to see Sherlock land with a grunt and whip his head around to check on the position of their pursuers.

"Think we lost them," May panted, hands on her knees. They must have gone nearly fifteen miles already. Maybe more. A crashing noise caught her attention.

"Think again," he replied, noticing the rocky terrain and grabbing her hand as they ran so they could both keep their balance a little more. She felt her fingers lace between his for extra stability.

Mere minutes later, May's foot rocked perilously on a deceivingly small and harmless-looking rock and rolled to the side, causing her to go down hard. A loud snap was audible and she couldn't help screaming when the pain rushed through her foot. It was definitely broken; she would not be able to put any weight on it whatsoever. She let go of Sherlock's hand and felt him slip away. A single tear slid down her cheek and she squeezed her eyes shut, waiting for the gunshot and the blessed nothingness of death.

_Take care of our son,_ she thought weakly.

The shot never came.

With a yelp of surprise, she felt herself being picked up and cradled tightly against a muscular chest. A bouncing sensation jarred her ankle and she hissed in a breath through her teeth. She suddenly realized who was carrying her.

It was Sherlock.

He'd come back for her. _The bloody idiot._

"Sherlock Holmes, put me down! We agreed you'd leave me if something happened!" she demanded.

"Your son deserves a mother," he replied, holding her delicately so his running wouldn't hurt her too much.

"He deserves at least one parent, which he won't get if you don't put me down! I weigh too much for you to run fast enough to ensure safety for both of us!" she protested, trying to wiggle free. He was having none of that; he just held her tighter.

"Want to bet?" Hunching down, he ran faster. The wind began to whistle in her ears.

"I hate you," she said with feeling, giving in to the fact that he wasn't giving her a choice in the matter and hanging on.

A chopper appeared in the distance. She almost panicked, but then she saw Sally Donovan, a person she'd been rather unfriendly with when she knew Sherlock the first time, in the passenger seat. It was from Scotland Yard.

They risked stepping into an open spot when it was nearly overhead. May waved a hand over her head and a ladder came down. Gently, but hastily, Sherlock shifted her to his back and grabbed onto the ladder, climbing quickly into the helicopter.

"You're damn lucky DI Lestrade had his mobile with him, freak," Sally informed him. "They're driving to an open field we can touch down in."

"No," Sherlock interjected. "We are flying straight to the hospital. Ms. Harrison has significant injuries. She requires medical attention."

"Sherlock, I'm fine," May lied, feeling the blood seep ever so slightly through the bandage on her arm. "I want to see Charlie. Go to the field."

He looked like he was going to argue this one to the death, so she clapped a hand over his mouth and nodded to Sgt. Donovan. He scowled at her in irritation.

She felt every single minute of turbulence on the way there, clinging to Sherlock's back and gritting her teeth. Her ankle throbbed with every beat of her heart and the blood was soaking through her makeshift bandage. She did her best to ignore it. She was going to see her son and that was that.

Moriarty was, at least this time, kind of beaten. He still got to know far more about Sherlock than was safe, but he didn't know everything May did. He hopefully never would know that much. It would destroy Sherlock in a second. She was sure the only person who knew more about the enigmatic consulting detective than she did was his mysterious brother who she had never met.

When the chopper touched down, May was feeling mildly dizzy from loss of blood. Sherlock piggybacked her off the chopper, carrying her over to where John stood with Charlie still in his arms. He looked like he might faint in relief. "Thank God you're both all right," he sighed.

"Sherlock, put me down. I can lean on the police cruiser," May instructed, a drop of blood dripping down the length of her arm.

"You look a little faint, maybe—" John interjected.

"—Comes with the territory of a broken ankle," she said. "I won't put any weight on it, scout's honor."

Sherlock muttered something that sounded suspiciously like, 'spy's honor, more like.' but he put her down next to the stationary vehicle. She stroked her sleeping son's hair softly, kissing his forehead.

When she looked up, the world wavered a little. The fatigue from blood loss, running a colossal distance, and breaking her ankle came flooding back and she swayed against the car. Gray spots swam in her vision and the concerned voices around her adopted a very faraway sound, like hearing the ocean through a conch shell.

The last thing she saw before the ground greeted her like an old friend and faded to black was Sherlock reaching out to catch her and calling her name.

**A/N: Review?**


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N: Enjoy!**

Sherlock knew May was going to faint about three seconds before her face went an ashen color and her eyes rolled back in her head. An involuntary, "May!" escaped his lips as he reached out to catch her before she could hit the ground. He only just got an arm under the top of her shoulders. Her head lolled back, blood soaking through the makeshift bandage on her arm. "She's losing a lot of blood," he announced, carefully picking her up once again. "She needs the hospital now." A sense of urgency flashed through him.

John gently passed the sleeping baby off to one of the policemen and examined her ankle and arm. He also lifted one of her eyelids delicately, biting his lip nervously. "She's bordering on going into shock," he said, brow furrowed in concern. "We need to keep her warm until we can get her to the hospital. And that bleeding needs to be slowed, a lot." He pulled his on-the go doctor's kit out—thankfully, he'd had the foresight to bring it along—and wrapped a long bandage around the gash tightly.

Lestrade slipped his arms out of his coat and wrapped it around the unconscious woman. "Okay, let's move," he said sharply, getting into the police cruiser. "Sherlock, you, John, and Sgt. Griffin—" he pointed at the older woman holding Charlie, "—get in the chopper. We'll meet you there. Go!"

They boarded the chopper silently, the air tense and thick with worry. If May went into shock, there would be little they could do about it until they got her proper medical help. And by then it might be too late.

"Sherlock," John's voice broke into his thoughts.

"Hm?" He shifted his arms to allow May access to more of his body heat.

"You okay?"

"Why wouldn't I be?"

John sighed in exasperation. Evidently, his previous question was, 'a bit not good' by the doctor's count. "Oh, let's see. You found out that May tricked you into giving her information about yourself, she made you fall in love with her, she left you and then came back into your life with an almighty crash, informing you of the dirt she got on you and also, by the by, you've got a son. Add to the fact that you just ran a hell of along way with the threat of being shot dead, well, no. I can't see _any_ way you'd bee less than fine. Of course not. Silly me."

Sherlock huffed, electing not to contradict all of the utterly contradictable points John had just brought up. "It is foolish to dwell on the past, John," he muttered. "And as for the, as you so aptly put it, 'hell of a long way', it was not a problem for me. It's all transport, remember?"

"'Course, how could I forget?" John rolled his eyes.

At the hospital, May was carefully taken from Sherlock's arms, bundled onto stretcher, and carried away. Charlie was also taken for observation to make sure no damage had come to him in the time he was away from his mother.

Sherlock settled in to wait in the waiting room nearest to where May was in surgery. The chair was spectacularly uncomfortable but he merely slouched down and steepled his fingers beneath his chin. He needed to think about events he thought he had entirely deleted from his memory.

Despite his best efforts to forget, he remembered the woman who had called herself Maya Love. Oh, he remembered her all too well. She had been different from any other woman he'd ever met. The first thing that had caught his attention about her was the fact that he couldn't read her. Maya was an enigma to him, a closed book with a lock on it that he didn't seem to be able to pick.

_~Flashback~_

_ Sherlock was alone, overly tired from a long case he hadn't slept during, and in the sort of stormy mood that only that level of exhaustion could incur. On his way to Baker Street—his landlord on Montague street had kicked him out after a disagreement, perhaps Mrs. Hudson would let him sleep in one of the unoccupied flats she leased—he noticed a woman giving him an odd sidelong glance. "Yes?" he drawled, annoyed._

_ "So you're off the drugs, then. God for you," she said in an obscure voice, falling in step with him._

_ He snapped his head to the side to fix her with a stare. "Pardon me?" he asked sharply._

_ "Don't worry, I can't tell you your whole life story or anything," she said, giving him a significant look, "but your entire body screams 'recovering addict.' The hollow eyes slowly returning to normal, clothing that hangs off like you're a scarecrow sans stuffing, the slightly sallow skin, it's all there," she ticked off her fingers. "I know who you are, though. Been on your blog before."_

_ "And just who do you think I am?"_

_ "Why Sherlock Holmes, of course. The way you flinched when I mentioned telling a person their whole life story with one look gave that away."_

_ Sherlock's mind struggled to formulate an appropriate response. He gave the blonde woman a long, searching look. To his dismay, there was nothing he could derive from the way she looked, talked, or acted. A tiny Mona Lisa smile made reading her face for answers nigh on impossible. "I see," he said, still scrambling for words. "And you would be..."_

_ "Maya," she said, extending her hand. "Maya Love. Nice to meet you, Mr. Holmes."_

_ Sherlock cursed himself—and her—silently and repeatedly. Still nothing! He _had_ to find out something about her. "I was on my way home, but you seem capable to provide at least a small distraction from the utter dullness that seems to be permeating my life at the moment. Would you be opposed to accompanying me to a pub?"  
Maya laughed, a faint, tinkling sound. "Now if that isn't the most unusual way I've gotten asked out, I don't know what is. I've got a bit of time on my hands, I don't see why not."_

_ "I did not ask you on a date, I simply asked if you'd like to go to a pub with me," Sherlock insisted. Dates, in his view, had certain strings attached he would prefer to avoid._

_ Maya smirked, the left corner of her mouth curling up. "In my book, that's a date request. Request granted. Where do you want to go?"_

_ There happened to be a pub right across the street from where they were standing and he pointed at it decisively. "There." He'd never been there before, but had seen it several times whilst out and about in London._

_ She raised and lowered one shoulder. "Works for me. I think I've been there once or twice."_

_ Together, they crossed the street in the direction of the pub. As soon as their feet touched the opposite side, Sherlock's mobile phone dinged. He knew who it was before he even extracted the device from his pocket. _Must he always stick his rather sizable nose in my business? _Sherlock thought moodily. _I'm perfectly capable of existing without his 'advice'._ He puled the phone out and opened the message._

Found a friend? -MH

Sitting in front of your CCTV's again? It will do nothing for your 'diet.' -SH

I am merely curious. There is no need to be childish. -MH

It is not childish to state a fact. Do stop texting me; I am otherwise occupied tonight. -SH

It would seem so. Be careful. -MH

Your façade of caring for me is as entertaining as it is pointless. -SH

_Sherlock turned off his phone and replaced it in the pocket of his coat to avoid all further distractions from his tedious brother. He looked up to see Maya giving him a look of amusement._

_ "Texting on a date? Bad form," she tsked jokingly._

_ "As this is _not_ a date, it is therefore not bad form," he retorted. "My brother decided to pester me and I found it necessary to dispatch him. Otherwise my mobile would've gone off repeatedly all night."_

_ "Keep saying it, maybe I'll believe it someday," she said, entering the pub with a flick of her hair. Sherlock watched in an amused state as every pair of male eyes homed in on her from wherever they were previously focused and immediately began the work of mentally undressing her. She appeared to notice and zipped her jacket up around the top of her collarbones._

_ They sat together at the bar, waiting for the bartender to get to them. "What'll you two have?" he asked, leaning on the counter like his job was the most boring thin he could possibly imagine. He considered his job a dead-end one, his wife—soon to be ex-wife if the frequently twisted on and off wedding ring was anything to go by—thought so too and he harbored the secret dream of being a painter. There was dried paint under his nails, acrylic. Right-handed._

_ "Gin and tonic, please," Maya requested._

_ "Vodka and tonic," Sherlock tapped the tips of his fingers in a pattern across the countertop, glossing over the smooth finish._

_ "He's paying," Maya pointed at him quickly, smirking when the bartender nodded and walked away before he could get a word in about them both paying their own way._

_ "When did I say I was paying?" he inquired, folding his arms across his chest loosely._

_ "Sort of an unspoken rule of a first date, I believe." She still insisted it was a date for reasons unknown to him._

_ "If it is unspoken, you have just violated it by saying it," he pointed out. "And I really do find it tedious to repeat myself," he said, making himself the picture of irritation._

_ "You wouldn't have invited me for drinks if you found me this annoying," she stated. "I also find it tedious to repeat myself."_

_ Their drinks arrived and Sherlock immediately took a sip, wincing at the fiery burn of alcohol sliding down his throat. The second sip went own more smoothly. It began to ease away some of the more infuriating things occurring earlier that day. He knew alcohol wasn't the best outlet for his frustration, but it was certainly less addictive, to him anyway, than cocaine._

_ Maya sipped her drink complacently, her face completely straight even though her alcohol of choice was strong. "Tell me about yourself," she said, tucking a few strands of bleach-blonde hair behind her ear._

_ "Why would I do that?" He gave her a hard look, hoping to catch her off guard and peer behind the walls hiding who she really was. Still nothing. Damn!_

_ "Because that's what people do," she said as though it were the most obvious thing in the world. "Look, I'll start, shall I? My name is Maya Love, I'm thirty years old, and I'm single. My parents spent a long time in India as Peace Corps. Volunteers, which is why I have a Sanskrit-based name."_

_ "—The cosmic illusion," Sherlock interrupted, finishing his drink and setting his glass aside. "That which is not."_

_ "Odd name, huh?" she asked, setting her own empty glass aside._

_ "It's a fascinating name," he said, feeling the beginnings of inebriation buzz at his ears quietly. "Names can often say a lot about a person." She ignored this comment, falling silent._

_ They received their second drinks. Maya peered at him quizzically. "Well, names often do explain one's personality or appearance to some end, but yours? Sherlock means fair-haired, or if you'd like to take it literally, bright-haired." She gave his dark curls a glance._

_ "I was rather tow-headed as a child, it just darkened over time," he explained, wondering why he'd just told her that. _

_ "Ah, see? It's not so hard to talk about yourself, is it?" She gave him a smug look._

_ The drinks must have loosened his tongue, because as they disappeared he found himself telling this strange woman more and more about himself with less objections from his overactive mind. By the time they exited the bar, Sherlock was as drunk as he ever remembered being. Details were quite fuzzy, but one of the clearer points was the pair sharing a heated kiss right in the middle of the sidewalk for __all to see. It didn't bother him in the slightest, as it ought to have. In fact, he thought he might've liked it._

_ The next morning, he woke up to find her number in his phone and a text message waiting for him. It said: _Hangover help: hot, unsweetened tea and unbuttered toast. ~Maya.

_ And hungover he was. Very much so. Needless to say, the trick helped. It calmed the pounding in his head sufficiently enough to allow mostly normal brain function._

Thank you. -SH

_ A reply made his phone beep._ Do you ever just sign it with your first name? ~Maya.

No... Why should I? -SH

Less stuffy that way... ;) ~Maya.

_At the time, Sherlock had no idea just how much of a mess he was throwing himself into._

_~End Flashback~_

Sherlock was bumped out of his reprieve by a nurse coming over to him and tapping his shoulder. He gave her a long, cool stare. "Yes?"

"Ms. Harrison came through her surgery just fine, sir," she said brightly, her good mood making Sherlock cringe in disgust. "I'll show you to her room if you'd like to see her... I understand you're, um... that is..." she trailed off feebly.

"The father of her child? Yes I am if that's what you're trying so fruitlessly to communicate."

The nurse flushed a deep pink color. "Yes, well. If you'd like to see her I'll show you the way," she repeated dazedly.

He stood up and followed the rather unintelligent woman to a small hospital room. May laid under a thin hospital blanket, needles poking out of her arms. Her breathing was slow, deep, and measured.

John was already in the room, sitting in a chair with a small bundle in his arms. It took him a moment too long to process it was Charlie. He raised one eyebrow as a question.

"Doctor privileges, remember?" John shrugged. "Made sure the little fellow was doing okay. He's fine, by the way. I'm surprised... well, maybe I'm not considering he's related to you."

"You look as though you're about to faint from hunger and in fact, you will if you don't eat soon," Sherlock pointed out.

"Sherlock I'm sitting down, that's not likely," he retorted. "But I suspect you'll keep on me about this so I'll give in. You'll take Charlie?"

He paused for the briefest instant. "All right, give him to me."

"Y'know," John began, "you haven't eaten either. I'll bring you something."

Sherlock waved a dismissive hand. "John, you of all people should know I don't eat as much as you people do."

"You make it sound like you're an alien or something," he muttered. "You should eat more, you know. Jesus, you're a twig."

He dutifully ignored the ex-army doctor's previous comment, settling into the chair with the infant in his arms. He would wait for May to wake up, and then some rather pressing topics would need to be broached.

OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoO

Slowly, May's eyes flickered open. Her head was pulsing with an awful pain, probably the after-effects of losing so much blood. Eventually, the room swam into focus. She was in a hospital bed, the quiet beeping sounds of the machines monitoring her body creating a soft background noise. It was sunset, nearly dark.

Someone was in the room with her. It was Sherlock, and he was fast asleep in the chair next to her bed. And Charlie was in his arms, also sleeping peacefully. A smile touched her lips. With both of their faces relaxed in sleep, the resemblance was a little clearer.

Her door suddenly opened and Doctor Watson looked in, Detective Inspector Lestrade on his heels. They noticed May was awake and appeared to be relieved at this.

"Good to see you up," John said with a smile. "We were worried—hullo, that's a new one." He had just seen Sherlock, who was still sleeping.

"When I woke up, he was just sitting there like that." She shrugged. "His lack of sleep must have caught up with him."

"Probably," Lestrade affirmed. "The idiot thinks he's practically invincible."

"And the pot calls the kettle black," a deep voice drawled behind him. Sherlock had his bright blue eyes cracked open slightly, a smirk flashing across his face momentarily. "You two clearly have news, and not of the favorable kind. By the way you keep avoiding eye contact with Ms. Harrison, I would assume it concerns her."

"Yes, I was going to get to that," John shot his flatmate a dark glare. "I kind of wanted to ease into it, so thanks very much for that, Mister Smart-arse."

"What is it?" May lifted her head so she could see the people occupying her hospital room better.

"Well, it's your flat," Lestrade said hesitantly. "Seems as though some of Moriarty's men planted explosives in there and set them off." Seeing May's look of horror he hastened to add, "No one was hurt, though. Apparently the bombers knew what they were doing. All they wanted to do was do your flat some damage, which they achieved.

"At least Charlie and I weren't in it, yeah?" she asked, tears welling up for no reason discernible to her. "I'm sorry, I just—"

Sherlock stood up, passing Charlie over to her. She gratefully accepted her son, holding him to her protectively. Nothing would ever take him away from her again. She would make sure of that.

He made a move to walk away, but her hand grasped his wrist weakly. "Sherlock," she whispered, not wanting him to leave suddenly.

He turned back to her, bending down so he could hear her better. "What?" he inquired.

"Thank you," she murmured, her free arm coming up to hug him tightly. He went stiff as a board for a minute and she was afraid she'd made a mistake, but then she felt his arms come up to wrap around her and their son gently. She was confused about what might happen next, but for now she felt things were starting to turn in the right direction.

**A/N: Review? And is anyone actually reading this story? Because no one ever reviews. :(**


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N: Hi! It's been a little too long, hasn't it? Sorry. I've been forsaken by my muses of writing and we just got an exchange student, so my life is a bit busier than ususal.**

"You're welcome at Baker Street," were the first words Sherlock was fully aware of saying after hugging the woman who had once been his sun and moon and their son—their son! He gazed down at the sleeping infant he had unknowingly sired nearly a year previously. How quickly life could change, for better or worse, he mused, his hand still lightly holding May's. He couldn't seem to stop slipping up an thinking of her as Maya, oddly enough.

Was he still angry with her? He supposed he should be, but it wasn't a fruitful effort, as he knew Moriarty would have found out about him sooner or later. And Maya—_May—_hadn't given him any overly telling information. Perhaps he was safe for just awhile longer.

"No, I don't think that would be a good idea," May protested weakly but John interrupted her, joining the conversation.

"Where else could you go?" he asked. "No offense meant, but I don't think you have another easy option. You said your friend lived a couple flats down? The entire building got damaged, so no one's living in there right now."

"No offense taken and good point," May said. Sherlock noticed her fluttering eyelids and knew he had limited time to talk to her before sleep pulled her under again. "But I feel like I'm just dropping myself in without preamble."

"No trouble, I promise," John said. "'Course, we've got a few things to tidy up first..." The doctor gave Sherlock a pointed look, stating clearly his experiments would be temporarily unwelcome in the flat. The look also told him the cleaning would be done by he who made the mess.

"Thank you, Doctor Watson," she said gratefully, sighing and sinking back into the hospital bed's thin pillow.

"Any time," he said. Sherlock stared at his flatmate significantly, silently communicating the fact that he needed to talk to May and would he and Lestrade leave immediately. John restricted himself to a small eye roll. "Lestrade, would you come with me? I really ought to go check up on some... things." Lestrade frowned, but complied with the request.

"Were you going for subtlety?" May asked, a tiny smirk tugging at her lips briefly. "Because you were slightly wide of the mark."

He ignored her, passing a hand through his hair once. "Why?" he asked quietly, the monosyllabic question asking more about why she left in the fist place than about everything else.

"It was my job, Sherlock," she sighed. "And it wasn't supposed to turn two-sided. All I was supposed to do was get information from you, not develop feelings."

"You couldn't separate yourself from your feelings?" Sherlock frowned. He had thought that would be a prerequisite of getting a job like that.

May sighed and gave him a look of exhaustion. "I tried, believe you me, I did. But I'm not perfect. I'm not nearly a Vulcan like you are, able to completely exchange my feelings for logic."

Sherlock deplored the necessity some people felt to connect certain traits people had to fictional characters or races. He gave her a slight hand motion indicating she should continue.

"Okay, bad comparison. Point is, if you give it long enough under the right circumstances a lie can become the truth." She sat back, kissing Charlie's forehead and allowing the statement to sink in.

He felt his back straighten a little as the message hit his ears, not fully absorbing the whole meaning for a long time. His mind turned it over and over like a coin in the hands of a child, musing until the last piece of the figurative puzzle fell into place.

Oh... _Oh.i_

He looked over at May to respond, but noticed her eyes had close and her breathing had evened out. Charlie began to whimper a bit, moving restlessly in his blanket. Not wanting to wake him or her, Sherlock delicately attempted to take the fretful child into his arms.

May's eyes flickered open just a crack. "Wha'?" she mumbled, still clearly out of it.

"I'll take him," he said softly, adding just a moment later, "don't worry."

"I never do with you," she said drowsily, the pain medications evidently taking effect. "I know you can handle whatever life throws at you."

Sherlock held his infant son in his arms gently, holding out one finger for him to grasp tightly with his tiny starfish hands. Something clicked inside him and he promised himself nothing bad would ever happen to either of the people in the room with him at that moment. It was his duty to keep them safe from anything or anyone who threatened their wellbeing. And by anyone, he mostly meant Moriarty. "I promise," he whispered, though both of the sleeping occupants of the room would not hear him.

OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoO

The next morning, May awoke to yet another new sight. Sherlock was pacing the room—how had he managed to stay the night?—which wasn't new, but seeing him giving their son a bottle was. When he noticed she was awake, she held her arms out and gave him a questioning glance.

"I had one of the nurses bring it in, no sense in waking you," he shrugged, settling Charlie in her arms once again. She kissed the soft fuzz that covered the top of his head.

"Thanks," she said, giving him a smile. To her utter surprise, she received a rare, genuine smile in return. No lip curling, derogatory smirk, no silent slight on her intelligence, just a pure, simple smile. It had been a year since she'd seen one of those from him.

He sat down again and steepled his fingers beneath his chin. Thinking again, she guessed. "He wasn't too much trouble, was he?"

"Hm?" he came out of his thoughts. "No, he hardly made any noise at all. Surprising, since all experiences I've had concerning babies involve copious amounts of crying and screaming." His lip curled momentarily at the unpleasant memory.

May chuckled. "Charlie's an odd one. Doesn't cry or wail much, sometimes he's happy but most of the time he just looks thoughtful. S'pose I'm lucky." Sherlock looked as though he counted himself lucky as well. Screaming children likely did not fit well into his master plan of being married to his work and being a full time consulting detective. She remembered how, at times, he could be unintentionally cruel because there was such a drive behind his work and all else paled in comparison in his mind.

"Sherlock?" she asked, the soft sounds of Charlie burbling around his bottle making her heart feel warm and light in her chest again.

"Yes?" His acute blue eyes stared straight into the depths of hers. They were like razor blades, cutting away any trickery or falsehood and seeing the plain, bare-bones truth.

"Thank you," she smiled at him hesitantly. The gratitude stretched beyond just the small instance of child care.

His brow wrinkled in confusion. He probably had no idea what she was thanking him for.

"Just... for everything." He nodded, seconds later reaching into his pocket and taking out his mobile phone. As he read the text, a pouting look crossed his face. Whatever the text said, it did not please him in the slightest.

As he tucked it back into his pocket, he said, "I've been summoned back to Baker Street. Evidently, John will not go anywhere near the kitchen because my experiments apparently _disgust_ him." He went on to mutter about John not understanding the importance of the experiments and couldn't he see how vital they were to certain cases. May suppressed a smile.

"Well, what must be done must be done, yes?" she asked, receiving a long suffering huff by way of response.

"I may be awhile, I can't exactly recall how many of my experiments are in various places," he said in a way that May knew wasn't intended to be funny at all, but it made her giggle nonetheless.

He cocked his head at her as though to ask, _Have I said something amusing?_ She waved a hand at him and said, "never mind. I'll be here whenever you come back. It's not exactly like I can go anywhere." Her voice was slightly annoyed.

As was his custom, he left with a slight swish of his coat and no words. Sherlock Holmes was a strange man, no mistake about that. But, if he chose to be, he could be a good one.

OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoO

When Sherlock arrived back at the flat, he was greeted by garbage bags lining the entrance to the stairs. It seemed John had overcome his fear of the kitchen and what it contained.

Upstairs, he found John vigorously scrubbing his hands in the sink. "I know these experiments are 'for science' or whatever the bloody hell you use them for, but Christ, Sherlock! This stuff is nearly _toxic_," his flatmate informed him grumpily. "Eyeballs, fingers, petri dishes of God-only-knows-what, I ought to have called in a haz-mat team to sort this out."

He paid no attention to John's ranting and picked about in the various cupboards and cabinets. There was really only one experiment he cared about in that particular moment and he was irritated to discover it had not survived the purge. "John, the fingers in the refrigerator were _very_ important," he stressed. "I was measuring the coagulation of blood after death and now I've got to start all over again."

"Start after we get May and her son back on their feet again," said John firmly. "Oh, and give all the surfaces a once-over, will you? I got all the big bits of stuff out of the way, but I didn't want to touch some of it. Like the bag of thumbs in the fridge and the eyes on the top shelf of it. They were looking at me." He shuddered, exiting the kitchen.

"For God's sake, John," he muttered. "They're removed from the body they belonged to. They are incapable of 'staring at you'."

Hours later, when John at last deemed the flat 'habitable', they returned to the hospital. She would be released and then they could go back to Baker Street and get her settle in. there was still a question of exactly _where_ she, or Charlie for that matter, would sleep, but they would figure it out as they went along.

May was sitting up in the bed when they arrived. More color had returned to her cheeks and she appeared to be feeling mostly back to normal. "'Bout bloody time," she said with an exaggerated sigh. "They won't let me leave and I'm about to go stark raving bonkers."

John laughed, making his way over to her bed. "You sound like you're pretty much better, aside from your stitches and ankle. I've been cleared to give you some final checks and then we can go."

She grinned widely. "Brilliant. Sherlock, could you take Charlie for a bit, please?" The doctor looked like he was about to tell her it might not be such a good idea, but he came over and took the infant into his arms without protest. John looked mildly shocked.

"Always the tone of surprise," he commented dryly, quoting from one of those 'Harry Potter' books his flatmate left lying around all the time.

Sherlock retreated to sit down in one of the chairs the room provided and watched in a detached sort of way as John gave May her checkup. He couldn't seem to stop looking at his son. It was irrational sentiment, but he felt a strong urge to hold this tiny, fragile infant close and protect him from the harms of the world. _I must have hit my head far harder than I thought when we were running from Moriarty's men, _he thought.

"... Looks like you're fine to go, Ms. Harrison," John commented. "I just want to give Charlie one more look. He went through quite a lot."

"Call me May, please," May said as John picked up her son. As soon as Charlie left Sherlock's arms, he began to whimper and cry.

"Think he wants you, Sherlock," John said, handing the child back to him.

This bit of news secretly pleased Sherlock, but he didn't show it. "Don't be absurd, John. He's three months old. How could he possibly know what he wants?" John cringed and coughed quietly, his usual nonverbal signal for 'a bit not good'.

May merely chuckled. "I don't know about that," she said jokingly. "He's pretty smart for being so young. I wonder where he gets it." Sherlock was forced to hide a smile. This time, it was harder to do so.

John finished Charlie's examination and gestured that, as soon as May was dressed, they would be able to leave. She disappeared into the washroom with her clothes from the closet, hopping slowly on her crutches. Once she was out of earshot, John turned to Sherlock.

"What's it like, being a father?" he asked.

"What do you mean?" Sherlock shifted Charlie into a more comfortable position. "It's not much different than not being a father."

John looked at the ceiling, likely issuing a silent prayer for patience. "Why must you have the emotional range of a teaspoon?" he mumbled.

"You're quoting those books again," Sherlock pointed out.

"What, Harry Potter?" John smirked. "Don't tell me you actually _read _them. Not after you ranted about how foolish they are."

Sherlock gave a haughty sniff. "They _are_ foolish. I read them one day when you were on one of those _dates_ and I was bored."

"When are you _not _bored?"

"On rare occasions."

When May came out of the bathroom on the pair of crutches the hospital had given her, the trio made their way down to the front desk where they signed her out and then outside where they waited for a cab. Sherlock still held Charlie in his arms. Occasionally, May would wobble back and forth on the crutches and he would shift the baby to one arm and put out a hand to steady her.

On one such occasion, just before they managed to get a cab, John pulled out his phone, got both of them to look up at once, and snapped a quick picture. "Your first family picture," he chuckled, pocketing the device before Sherlock could get ahold of it.

May rolled her eyes good-naturedly, getting into the cab with assistance from both men. "Knowing my tendency to do so, I probably blinked," she laughed. As soon as they were sitting down, she relieved Sherlock of his baby-holding duties.

The cab ride home was mostly silent after giving the cabbie instructions on where to go, but the silence was comfortable. Very different from the many terse silences during the fight to find Charlie. John kept turning around from where he sat fro reasons unknown to Sherlock. He seemed to have taken a vested interest in the interactions between himself and May. Tedious.

Finally, May spoke up. "I've just fully realized I only have the clothes on my back and Charlie now," she said. "I have no clothes for either of us. Guess I'll have to go shopping at some point."

The cab pulled up to the curb in front of 221b and John got out first, holding the door open for Sherlock to get out, take the baby, and offer his free arm to May for balance. This time, she ignored his proffered help.

"I'm not a _complete _invalid, Sherlock," she rebuked him gently, adjusting her crutches properly and exiting the vehicle. John smothered a chuckle quite poorly.

"I am so glad my flatmate has such great levels of maturity, John," Sherlock sniffed, putting his key into the door and opening it. John refrained from comment as Mrs. Hudson came bustling into the hallway.

"Sherlock, some men were here while—oh, hello again, dear!" she noticed May. "Good gracious, what's happened to you? Ah, but you're safe, and your son too. I suppose that's all that matters. And what a sweet little fellow he is too!" She cooed at the baby.

Sherlock interceded, cutting off his landlady. "Mrs. Hudson, you mentioned men being here. Explain, please." He nearly always attempted to be polite to the older woman, but he was sorely concerned now. Surely it wasn't Moriarty's men already, was it?"

"Oh yes, some men dressed in nice, fancy suits came by about a half an hour ago. They had lots of boxes in their arms. Wouldn't tell me a thing about why they were here or how they got into your flat, since I know for a fact it was locked," she said fretfully.

A frown darkened Sherlock's face. He gently handed Charlie to Mrs. Hudson. The men could be working for one of two people, neither of which he liked at all. "I'll be back, stay right here," he said, striding up the stairs purposefully. Quickly, he pushed through the door which was still unlocked from the earlier intrusion and looked around the flat, in the two bedrooms and in the sitting room. He growled in frustration. It wasn't Moriarty, which was something of a relief, but it wasn't exactly a man he was pleased with.

"It wasn't him," he called down the stairs. Shortly thereafter, Mrs. Hudson, John, and May came up the stairs.

"What the bloody hell?" John inquired in annoyance, throwing his hands up in the air. Many of his things had been moved into the sitting room and the couch appeared to have been made up into a bed. "Who did this?"

"Guess," Sherlock said shortly, handing him a note. It was written in a fancy script.

_I took the liberty of preparing your flat for your guest. ~MH_

The doctor made a face. "Thanks, Mycroft," he muttered.

"Nearly all of my things have been moved into your room," Sherlock said to his flatmate, "and there are a multitude of things in my room that look as though they've been bought for you." He pointed at May. "There are also many things that would belong to Charlie."

"Your brother?" May inquired, taking a peek into the room. There was a closet full of new clothes that would fit her, the tags still on, and a small bassinet for Charlie, as well as a small stack of things for him on the bed. She shook her head, likely at least a little frightened of a man who could know so much about her without ever having met her. With due cause.

"Unfortunately, yes," Sherlock grumbled, making his way to his chair and sitting down with his arms crossed loosely over his chest.

"Mrs. Hudson, is it?" May asked the older woman. She nodded in the affirmative. "Could you put Charlie down for a nap in the little bassinet, please? I'd like to go get a glass of water."

"I can get it for you, if you'd like," John offered, making to get up from his chair. May shook her head.

"No, I need to do some things for myself. It won't be too difficult," she said, hopping in the direction of the kitchen.

Sherlock looked up then, realizing too late he might've left the eyeballs on the top shelf. "May, wait, there's—" he called after her, getting to his feet. He never got to finish his sentence. A shriek of horror echoed through the flat.

_"Sherlock Holmes!"_ she yelled. He cringed, looking at his feet. "_Why are there eyes in the refrigerator?"_

**A/N: I'm putting all my other stories temporarily on pause so I can finish this one, since I expect another two chapters at most.**

**Review? :)**


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